Pro Bono
by owlcroft
Summary: Some might see them as vigilantes, others as heroes. But what Hardcastle and McCormick have always done has been pro bono publico - for the good of the public. Here, we proudly present our wrap-up of a story that began at the end of Virtual Season Four.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story was almost entirely written by L.M. Lewis, so it's only fair that it be dedicated to her. Picking up where we left off in "Cui Bono", we find Judge Hardcastle in front of the house, looking for McCormick after hearing a gunshot.

 **Pro Bono**

 **Chapter One**

" _McCormick_!" The judge heard his own pulse pounding in his ears.

It was the sudden absence of sound, the air filled only with the tang of gunpowder. The sun had slipped behind the trees and all he could make out was McCormick's white tee—he was down on the ground.

"Dammit," he muttered as he took off at a lope. If he'd had to explain his actions, he might have pointed out that the shooter had already had plenty of time to take him down, but all those thoughts were buried far beneath the more immediate concern.

He'd only made it half-way across the lawn when he saw something decidedly hopeful—movement. McCormick had obviously rolled, now slightly on his side. A few more steps and he could see the man was looking at him—glaring actually.

He arrived, stooped down, and was close enough to hear McCormick's hiss. "Are you out of your _mind_? I'm playing possum and you come trotting out here." The younger man squinted. "And no gun even?"

Hardcastle squinted right back, taking in the front of the McCorrmick's shirt—unbloodied. He finally tore his eyes from that, glanced around, and said, "I think he's gone."

McCormick glanced over his shoulder toward the bushes and grudgingly said, "Maybe." He pushed himself into a sitting position, "Not that you had anyway of knowing for sure."

"You get a look at him?"

Mark shook his head. "Just heard a bang and dropped—my right ear's still ringing. Musta come from over there." He pointed toward the line of bushes, about ten yards off. "One shot."

The judge glanced up at the sky. "Wish I'd brought a flashlight."

"Don't go tromping around back there. We _think_ he vamoosed. Time to call in the professionals." McCormick wiped one hand against his jeans and winced, then poked at the pants leg again. "Buckshot. Musta caught a couple."

Hardcastle moved in for a closer look. "At that range coulda been a lot worse. You can walk?"

Mark bent his knee and shifted his weight onto it experimentally and then pushed up with a grunt. "Yeah, nothing vital. I think the mower took the hit for the team."

There was an increasing odor of gasoline above the persistent scent of smokeless powder. McCormick took a step toward it before Hardcastle snagged his elbow.

"Inside, now. Like you said—time to call the cops." He paused. As if on command they both heard a distant siren. Hardcastle sighed. "Or maybe one of the neighbors already has."

He tugged again and McCormick fell into step beside him, only glancing back once at the scene of the crime as they trudged toward the house.

00000

The first patrol car had indeed responded to calls from several neighbors reporting "shots fired". It wasn't an unheard-of event at Gull's Way and the officers hadn't had to look up the address. They pulled in, mars lights blazing, just as the two residents stepped onto the drive, with Hardcastle giving them a weary wave.

He gave them a précis which served as a launching point. Back-up was being called for as the judge escorted McCormick up the steps and into the light of the den. By the time Frank Harper arrived, about forty minutes later, Mark had already convinced the judge that an ambulance would be overkill. The bleeding had been staunched and a temporary dressing applied. He had to repeat the argument to Frank, of course, but the lieutenant settled for a shake of the head and a wry look.

It might not have been just Mark's casual attitude toward gun shot wounds that was the focus of Harper's discontent. He'd already taken a tour of the crime scene, and the technicians were nearly finished gathering what they needed.

"It was a booby-trap," Frank said. "A piece of green twine, staked out across the lawn. Must've been low enough to be hidden. It was rigged to a Remington twelve-gauge. The mower snags the twine, the gun goes off."

Mark frowned. "But at least we've got the gun—"

"Already ran the serial number," Frank drawled. "It's registered to Milton C. Hardcastle." He turned to the man in question. "The lock on your poolside stash is busted. I'll need you to tell me if any other weapons were taken."

The judge nodded once soberly.

Frank sighed and continued, as though quoting from a report not yet written, "The twine is a good visual match for the stuff you've got on your trellis."

"There's a ball of it in the garden shed," Mark said quietly. "So you're saying we've got nothing."

"Worse than that," Harper said grimly.

"He means it looks like an inside job," Hardcastle grumbled. "The gun even has our fingerprints on it, I'll bet. the busted lock, though—I woulda noticed that. Can't have been that way for long."

Frank pulled his notebook out. "Were you here all day?"

"Ah . . ." The judge suddenly looked reticent.

"I left first and got back first," Mark said, "so we were both here alone for a while. Tuition bills too high?" He cast a curious look at Hardcastle then shook his head. "Nah, don't worry. They'll figure I set it up myself. It fits my M.O.—I'm mechanically inclined."

Just who "they" were was left unspecified. All three men could clearly envision the list, starting with the D.A. who'd most recently had McCormick in for questioning regarding Professor Hawksworth's death.

"Look," Mark said rubbing the bridge of his nose, "it's been a long day. I think I'll hobble over to the gate house and put my leg up for a while." He heaved himself out of the chair.

Hardcastle was on his feet as well. "I'll walk you over there."

McCormick waved him away. "No, I'm fine. I've been banged up worse than this on the basketball court." With that he took the two steps up to the hallway gamely, as if to prove the point, and was gone.

He left a momentary silence in his wake. Hardcastle was too preoccupied to notice that Frank was dealing with his own demons. All he knew for certain was that this _wasn't_ the ideal opportunity to tell the lieutenant that he'd found a perfectly innocent explanation that afternoon for the gunpowder residue on Professor Hawksworth's jacket. For one thing, he hadn't had a chance to tell McCormick—or, to be more accurate, he'd avoided telling him. He let out a heavy breath.

Harper glanced up.

Hardcastle shrugged. "One of those days."

"So where were you today?"

"Looking into some leads."

"Anything you wanna share?"

"Nothing useful . . . so far." Hardcastle suppressed a wince. He thought he might have stepped over the line into untruth—though what he'd uncovered was, in absolute fact, _un-_ useful to McCormick's cause. He sighed and added, "I'll let you know if I nail anything down."

Frank seemed to be studying him closely, or maybe—Hardcastle had just an inkling, based on long acquaintance—he was holding back something on his side.

"Any news about Hawksworth's autopsy?" he inquired politely.

Frank shook his head. "Probably in the next day or so. Any idea who mighta had it in for your lawnmower?"

"You mean you don't think it was McCormick out there with the twine and the shotgun?"

Frank looked annoyed and Milt knew better than to push it with the only guy who _didn't_ include McCormick among the usual suspects.

"Sorry," he said gruffly, "like I said, long day. Listen, you know as well as I do how many folks we've ticked off over the last four years. I'm working my way through the list but it's gonna take time."

The lieutenant gave that a pensive nod and said, "You might want to hustle a little on that."

Hardcastle lifted his head and studied the man sharply. It might only have been in reference to this evening's attack, or maybe some rumors from the ME's office that Hawksworth's cause of death would be labeled a homicide. The judge didn't feel he was in a position to demand more explanation—it was sound advice in any regard.

"Yeah," he finally said, "I will."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Harper finally left. Hardcastle watched his departure with a mixture of guilt and nagging curiosity. As the last glimmer of taillights disappeared around the curve of the drive, he let out a thoughtful sigh and glanced at the gate house. The lights were still on there; leave it to McCormick not to be conveniently indisposed.

Maybe he'd just been too tired to get up and hit the switch. Maybe he'd be planked out on the sofa with one leg elevated, already starting to snore. It was possible, and the possibility lent enough hope to get Hardcastle across the drive and up to the door. He even knocked—more of a tap, really—and followed that with a nudging of the door and a quiet inquiry, "You up?"

The response was a grumbled, "Yeah, 'course I'm up."

Hardcastle entered, trying not to look reluctant. McCormick was, much as expected, on the couch, having exchanged his jeans for a pair of cutoffs that revealed the gauze pads taped to his left thigh. The judge stepped over and stared down at those for a moment, frowning.

"How many?"

"Three. I got one out and one was just a gouge."

"Are you sure you shouldn't—?"

"I'm _sure_." McCormick interrupted impatiently. Then he glanced down at his first aid handiwork dismissively and up at Hardcastle, still standing there, still frowning. "Just like I'm sure you didn't come over here to critique my Red Cross skills. Frank gone?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle admitted. "Couple minutes ago—rest of the crew, too."

Mark nodded. "Helps when the frame is all nice and neat. Nothing sticking out around the edges." He squinted up at Hardcastle. "We gotta get some better locks around here." He paused, as if he were putting it on his mental to-do list, and then added, "So what else happened today that you wanted to tell me about?"

It was matter-of-fact, but still jerked Hardcastle out of his momentary pondering long enough to say, "Huh?" and focus more sharply on the younger man.

Mark was still gazing up at him—a little more fixedly, if it wasn't the judge's own guilty imagination lending an edge to it.

"Ah…" he said, then lowered himself into the chair opposite the sofa. "What makes you think—?"

"Cut to the chase, Judge. I'm already up past my bedtime and I took a couple of buckshot—how much worse can it be, whatever it was you didn't want to tell me when you got home?"

Hardcastle's frown deepened. "You mean you knew…"

"Yeah," McCormick managed a crooked half-smile, "the thing where you sit out in the driveway in the car—it's a tell."

"Then why didn't you—?"

"I was probably in denial. I'd had a pretty productive afternoon and maybe I thought things were looking up. Why ruin a moment like that?" Mark sighed. "They're so rare."

Hardcastle thought about that one only momentarily before giving it a nod.

" _So_?" Mark hadn't lost sight of the original point, it seemed. He sat there, waiting, with a look of dread expectation.

Hardcastle let out a long breath, took in another one, and launched into a summary of the afternoon's discovery, describing how the late Professor Hawksworth had gotten gunpowder residue on his favorite tweed jacket pursuing the honorable sport of shooting skeet with Clement Upton, a man who also no longer appeared to be a conspirator.

It was a short tale, and the point wasn't lost on McCormick, who muttered gloomily, "I knew today was going too well. What'd Frank say?"

"Ah," Hardcastle glanced to the side and tried for nonchalant, "nothing."

Mark looked puzzled. "You mean he doesn't think this is going to put the DA back on my tail for Randy's death?"

"No," Hardcastle gave up the pretense abruptly, "I mean I didn't tell him…yet."

He watched McCormick's expression shift from merely puzzled to outright baffled. "But it's evidence. It's kinda critical evidence."

"Well, maybe not _critical_ —"

"Anyway," Mark pushed on stubbornly, "Upton knows, and now you know, and how long before somebody else knows _and_ figures out you knew. This is concealing evidence, or interfering with a police investigation or… _something._ "

"No," the judge said patiently, "it's none of the above. There's nothing in the law that compels a person to proffer incidental information to the authorities. On top of which, this is only circumstantial evidence for the possible innocence of a man who is never going to be charged with _anything_ because he's already dead."

McCormick's expression hadn't changed one iota.

"But, yeah," Hardcastle sighed, "it's wrong. Not to mention it'd be a helluva lot more damaging if it came out later."

"So why didn't you tell Frank?"

"Because I hadn't told you, that's why. I didn't want you to be blindsided. I just didn't know you were gonna trip over a booby trap and Frank'd be on our doorstep before dinner."

"Oh." Mark paused as though he were thinking that over. His expression went grim as he came to the obvious conclusion. "So you'll tell him tomorrow."

Hardcastle nodded, looking just as dour.

"How long, then, after that?" Mark asked quietly. He didn't have to explain what he meant.

"A day, or two maybe. Frank'll probably bury it in a report but he'll have to send it along. Upton's name'll jump out at anyone who bothers to read it, and then they'll send an investigator out to interview him."

"And then they'll put two and two together and think maybe ol' McCormick wasn't such a bad guess for Randy's murder after all."

"They'll want to question you some more, that's all," Hardcastle insisted stoutly.

"Probably one or two days," Mark looked focused, "two most likely, before they haul me back in. Then fifty-fifty they'll hang onto me."

"Pessimist."

"No, a pessimist would say eighty-twenty. That pardon I got doesn't create amnesia; it just makes 'em think I got lucky. 'Pardoned felon' isn't much better than ex-con to these guys."

Hardcastle humphed. "All right, so we've got two days, maybe three. We better make the most of it."

"You mean I should finish the lawn first thing in the morning?"

"No, I mean you should try and get some sleep tonight. I'll spend some time with the list, try and work out our next most likely prospects."

"Try not to dig up any more alibis for Hawksworth."

Hardcastle gave that a grim nod. "Yeah." Then he looked frowned abruptly. "You know, we must've shaken something loose. Somebody _did_ try to kill you tonight. We probably oughta draw the wagons up in a circle."

"Uh-uh." McCormick said wearily. "I'm too tired to move to the main house and, besides, the way things are going, my best bet is if they try again."

00000

For better or worse, the rest of the night passed uneventfully, though Hardcastle hadn't gotten much sleep. He wasn't surprised to hear movement downstairs not long after sun-up. He climbed out of bed and pulled on some clothes but left the shotgun propped by the nightstand because, unless it was an assassin who believed in a balanced breakfast, the clatter of frying pan and cabinet doors sounded reassuring.

The coffee had already been set to brew, suggesting that McCormick's night hadn't been any more restful than his own. Hardcastle didn't bother to ask. The slight limp and the tense expression were enough. The younger man had plenty of tells of his own.

"Nobody tried to off me last night," Mark grumbled by way of a greeting. He sounded disappointed.

"How's the leg?"

He shrugged and filled a second cup, then set them both on the table. "Stiff. You want some eggs?"

Hardcastle cocked his head. "You oughta be letting me do the fetching and carrying."

"Not _that_ stiff. Besides, you're the one with the busy day—seeing Frank, chasing down leads. You do have some leads to chase down, don't you?" There was a plaintive tone to that, but Hardcastle was fresh out of false reassurance and, hearing none, McCormick cut to the matter at hand.

"What time are you going to see Frank?" He'd managed to keep it nonchalant, turning back to the pan on the stove as he said it.

The judge had been pondering that very question for part of the night. Frank wouldn't buy the excuse that it had just slipped his mind the day before, and while he might accept that McCormick had deserved to hear the bad news first, that still wouldn't explain a whole day's delay.

But just a little more delay, and the usual slow cranking of the investigatory gears, might buy them an extra day or two before the authorities decided to haul McCormick in for another round of questioning. A couple of days, even _one_ day, might make a big difference.

"This morning," he finally said, trying not to sound resigned. Then he brightened slightly. "Unless you think the leg's getting worse. I could run you over to the ER."

"All this avoidance…it's gonna look bad."

He was right. Hardcastle had to nod. "Okay, this morning for sure. But after being here so late last night, Frank won't even get in until nine or nine-thirty I'll bet." He hesitated a moment before adding, "Maybe you ought to come along."

McCormick cast a sharp look over his shoulder. "To the station? Are you out of your mind?"

"Somebody did try to kill you yesterday."

"So this is what, the buddy system? No thanks. If they want me, they'll have to come and get me."

He hadn't made it clear if he meant anonymous assassins or the LAPD. Hardcastle suspected the policy applied to both.

"Okay," he said reluctantly. "Just stay out of trouble while I'm gone, will ya?"

00000

It was shortly after ten when Hardcastle pulled into the lot at the station. Frank's sedan was in its usual spot. The judge hadn't called ahead, half-hoping to miss him entirely on the first pass and be forced to leave a note, something obscure that ended with, "Give me a call later—no rush."

No luck. Where wasn't a cop when you didn't need him? Frank was sitting behind his desk, with a phone receiver to his ear, looking harried. Hardcastle didn't think it was his imagination—the man glanced up from whoever was giving him an unpleasant earful and looked not even a bit happy to see his old friend.

To the receiver he said, "Okay, yeah, I understand. Absolutely."

There wasn't even a perfunctory good-bye before he set it back in the cradle, but from the tone he'd used, Hardcastle would have guessed it the call was from someone higher up in the departmental food chain.

"Bad timing?" he asked politely. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder and added, "If it is, I can come back."

Frank looked tempted to take him up on that offer, but then, with just a moment's hesitation, gestured him into the office and said, "You might want to close the door."

He did. He took a seat, too, thinking that confessing his sin of omission might come across better if he seemed relaxed.

"There's something I meant to tell you yesterday. It kinda got lost in all the excitement."

Hardcastle sat there, mouth slightly agape, Frank having stolen the words right out of it. It took him only a split-second to shut it and nod once for the lieutenant to go on.

"That call I just got—that just makes it official. I had a heads-up on this yesterday—an 'anonymous judicial source'."

Hardcastle cocked his head. "Mattie?"

"Maybe. Anyway, the word was that one of the lab guys perjured himself two days ago. A murder trial. The judge who was hearing the case blew a gasket."

Hardcastle's eyes narrowed. "I'm gonna recognize this guy's name, huh?"

"The judge, or the technician?" Frank shook his head. "Never mind—you know 'em both." He opened his right-hand drawer and pulled out a file folder from where it had been conveniently stored. "The guy from the lab is Kennie Muller, sound familiar?" Frank held the folder out.

Hardcastle reached for it, flipped it open, and looked down at the top page stapled into it, the results on Hawksworth's jacket, gunpowder residue and all. He glanced up sharply. "Muller says he faked this report, too?"

"Not yet. But that phone call was was 'cause somebody down at the DA's office made the connection between our perjurer and this case. I'd call that fast work. And Judge Gault's demanding a grand jury to look into the whole thing."

"Oh, _Winnie_ —it kinda makes sense now. He's got a short fuse."

Frank said nothing, the look alone was enough.

Hardcastle drew himself up a little straighter and said, " _My_ fuse is plenty long." Then he paused, frowned slightly, and amended, "Longer than Winnie's, anyway."

"Doesn't matter," Frank pointed out. "You're not the one hollering about taking this to the board of commissioners. The DA's already starting an inquiry; they're yanking all the work Muller's handled, starting with the most recent."

Hardcastle set the folder down very carefully. He was aware that Frank was staring at him, that he ought to be concerned—hell, _alarmed_ even. But he couldn't help it; he felt oddly buoyant, and it wasn't just because his own moment of confession had been suddenly tabled.

He smiled thinly at Harper. "You think it's all a coincidence? A lazy tech has been cutting corners and gets caught and, surprise, there's an inconvenient bit of evidence that needs to be retested?"

"I don't know what to think, Milt. All I know is that the residue on that jacket was the only thing keeping the heat of Mark. If it comes back clean—"

"I think it will," Hardcastle said.

Frank started at him in blank horror.

"You start out, a nice little plan." The judge sat back his seat, still smiling slightly. "You've got one or two co-conspirators, smart guys who know how to keep their mouths shut. It's easy, _simple_. Low stakes, even. Nobody's supposed to get hurt. Well, almost nobody. And then . . . look what happens."

Frank looked unhappy.

Hardcastle wasn't smiling now, either, but his expression was one of calm certainty. "Three dead bodies, booby traps, perjury, a grand jury. This guy's good—"

" _What_ guy?"

"—He's got reach, I'll grant him that. But he's left too many handles on this thing."

"I'll settle for a list even," Frank said with a sigh.

"Forget the list; whoever it is, he's ready for anyone who comes at him head-on." Hardcastle sat forward, looking like he was done pondering. "I'd say try the handles. Pull on things till something shakes loose."

Frank gave him doubtful look and then shook his head slightly. "Okay, that's your department. I've got a lot less leeway. That was the other thing that phone call was about." He grimaced. "My 'prejudicial influence' on a case involving you and your protégé—they're complaining."

"'They'?"

"The anonymous kind of 'they'. If I'm measuring the trajectory right, though, it's coming from the DA's side."

Hardcastle gave that a moment's consideration. It wasn't exactly surprising. Most of the people who disapproved of him disapproved just as heartily of Harper's aiding and abetting him. It might be just that general on-going animosity or it might be yet another handle. Time would tell.

00000

McCormick considered spending the morning shopping for a new lawnmower and a better grade lock to replace the one that had been busted off the pool storage door, but somehow he didn't even think the soothing environs of Lumber World would do much for his disposition.

He even briefly regretted not having accompanied Hardcastle down to the station. It wasn't that he felt threatened; another attack would be more than welcome at this point. It was a nagging feeling that having an alibi was a good idea, without any certainty in which time frame one might come in handiest.

Once the breakfast dishes were done he called Amy London. No answer. He wondered if she was out blowing through her textbook resale money.

In the end he put on a clean shirt and a pair of Dockers and headed over to the university. He thought he'd stop by and say hello to Joe Perillo, thank him for the help retrieving Hawksworth's files—maybe Professor Kolper even, though he wasn't sure how direct he should be in expressing his gratitude there.

As he headed down the hall to Hawksworth's former office he tried not to analyze his intentions too closely—that he was running out of time and wanted to let the people who had stood by him know how much he'd appreciated it. It didn't pay to dwell on that right now.

There was someone in the outer office—he saw a shadow move across the frosted glass of the hallway door. Perillo, he figured, doing the tidying up from the previous day's printing marathon. He raised his hand to knock, just a perfunctory rap before he pushed the door open—he'd been in and out of the office quite a bit the past two days.

"Hey, just me," he said, by way of announcement.

The effect was impressive. Mrs. Trask—it was her, and apparently only her, in the outer office—whirled to face him and then let out a gasp and stepped back suddenly, nearly falling into the desk.

He stepped forward, reflexively, to help. She paled visibly and held up a hand, as if to ward him off.

"Sorry," he said, "sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

She'd found her voice, and he was glad that the first thing she did with it wasn't a piercing scream for help. It was a crisp interrogative that began, " _Mr_. McCormick, what are you doing here?"

It was a reasonable question. For all he knew, she might be under the impression that he'd done in the former occupant, her boss. Saying something to deny that would just be admitting that there was an elephant in the room. Instead he smiled—polite, not too effusive—and said, "Professor Kolper asked me to lend a hand with the computer."

She sniffed once, sharply. "He might have asked _me_. It is my system."

"I think everyone wanted to give you a little time away. Not bother you with stuff right now. You were Professor Hawksworth's secretary for a long time, weren't you?"

"Nearly fifteen years," she said. There was no sigh. She was entirely self-possessed now. Her gaze was riveting.

He tried not to flinch under it. It was oddly reminiscent of Sarah Wicks, without Sarah's underlying affection. Though he had to admit it had taken him awhile to perceive that in Hardcastle's housekeeper, too.

 _Kindly dragons, guarding the lairs._ The thought flitted through his mind, but what he said was, "We managed to figure things out, but it took two of us. Me and Joe Perillo."

He'd hoped invoking the name of the wonder boy would gain him some cachet but apparently Mrs. Trask was hard to impress. There were no further sniffs, just a narrow suspicious look and a very perceptive observation.

"You were looking through his files."

Mark took only a split second, standing at the fork in the road, before turning his back on the path that led to perdition. It always looked rose-strewn but tended to get thorny quick enough. Instead, he went for the straight and narrow—flat-out honesty.

"We," he paused; he tried not to sigh.

 _Honesty._

He started again. " _I_ wanted to see his schedule. See who he might have had an appointment with."

"The police already asked me about that—his visitors that day."

"I mean further back, before that."

"You mean who he might have been in cahoots with."

He couldn't help it; his expression tightened. Two murders, maybe three, and who knows what other conspiracy, made to sound no more serious than stealing apples from an orchard.

But, oddly, Mrs. Trask's own expression didn't lend any irony to her statement; maybe cahooting was strong stuff to her. He was beginning to get a glimmer of something other than unalloyed loyalty in the professor's former secretary.

"You didn't kill him, did you?" she asked quietly.

She was still gazing at him, as if to judge his first unspoken reaction. He hoped he hadn't flinched this time, either, it had been so unexpected—the elephant invoked.

"No," he said flatly. "When I got here, he was dead."

He said nothing further in his own defense. She was studying him with apparent care, though it wasn't immediately clear from her expression how she felt about his assertion.

She finally let out a long breath, took another in, and said, "Good. I rather liked you."

He tried not to look surprised. He must not have quite succeeded because she went on.

"I did, you know. He made some remarks when the incoming class list was sent over. He singled you out. Quite disapproving. You never noticed?"

There was a moment of studied silence and then he finally admitted, with a half crooked smile. "Well, it was hard to miss."

"Yes, you seemed fairly perceptive—well-spoken, too. You were not what I expected." She had come very close to a smile, just momentarily, but it didn't take. "He's been wrong before."

Mark noticed the use of the present tense, but then, it'd only been a little over a week since her long-time boss's death. To the rest of her assessment he gave nothing more than a minimalist nod intended to encourage further revelations.

For a moment it didn't look as if she were going to bite. She merely sighed again, drew herself up a little straighter, and looked around the office. She might have been bidding it all good-bye, but a distracted musing cancelled that impression abruptly.

"Now if I could just figure out what happened to that jacket."

"Ah…?"

She glanced back at him sharply. "The tweed. Don't tell me you never noticed. I never saw him without tweed. Certainly not on a class day."

Mark nodded. He wasn't sure if he should point out that it had gone with Hawksworth's corpse to the Medical Examiner's office, and thence, at Hardcastle's insistence, to the crime lab. His confusion must've shown on his face. She shook her head tightly as if she'd heard every word of his thoughts.

"Not _that_ one. The other. You didn't think he'd wear the same one every day, did you?" She tsk'd at the notion.

"How many were there?"

"Two."

"And they're identical?" Mark asked casually.

"Yes, or nearly so. Harris—the classic cut, brown herringbone weave, 38 long. He bought them in pairs and alternated them."

"You thought it might be here?"

"Well, it wasn't at his apartment. I looked."

There'd been no blushing or hesitation. That she had a key to his place seemed to be a given, along with her knowing his suit size and brand.

"But it's not in the closet here, either," she added pensively. "And I'm certain I brought the spare one to him that Monday, right before all this started."

"You took care of his dry cleaning."

"Of course."

It was that and nothing more. Mark was sure of it. He abandoned all other notions, but he was still puzzled. "But why—"

"The jacket? For the funeral. There's going to be one eventually I'm sure." She set her lips in a tight, disapproving frown that was undoubtedly aimed at the inefficiency of it all. "Though the way things are going, we won't be having an open casket at the viewing." She paused, as if considering the distasteful consequences of delay. "Still," she sighed, "he'd want the tweed."

Mark was inclined to take her word for it. He nodded and then, with a note of sympathy, added, "I'm sure they'll be releasing the body any day now."

"I hope so," she said doubtfully, "but what about the jacket?"

"It'll turn up."

He didn't think he'd sounded all that convincing but she gave him a nod for the effort. Then she turned to the side, leaning down and riffling through the box of floppy disks on the floor there and finally picking them up, box and all, and setting them on the desk.

"Dean Thomas asked me to bring these over to the main office," she said, though Mark had pointedly not asked her what she was doing. "Academic information," she added, unconvincingly.

"Can I help you with that?" he asked. It was a little too belated; she was already standing.

"No, I can manage. Anyway, I don't think the dean is all that pleased with you right now, young man."

She'd hefted the box, which in truth seemed pretty manageable. He was standing now as well; it seemed like time to leave. He hurried to get the door for her. She turned and gave him just a glimmer of a smile—a fleeting thing, but surprising—as she brushed by him.

00000

He'd walked her to the elevator and out of the building, still feeing a little awkward about her insistence on handling the load by herself. She bade him farewell on the steps of the building, correctly presuming that he was heading toward the student parking lot, while she was going a half-block in the other direction, to Dodd Hall and the dean's office.

He glanced over his shoulder once, as he strolled away, then tucked his chin down and headed across the unusually empty lot toward his car. He'd drawn even with it, just rounding the rear corner, fishing in his pocket for his keys. It must have been his absorption—still mulling over his strange encounter with Mrs. Trask—but the screech of tires on pavement, a bad braking job, was his first awareness of the vehicle that had rocketed in behind him.

He spun to face it as the back door of the dark sedan opened and an oversized guy in a suit stepped out. This was no Harris tweed—something more in the sharkskin line.

"Get in," the guy said.

The too-familiar the bulge of a gun was there, under the suit, just below his left armpit. It wasn't out yet, though Mark felt as if that could change at any moment. Still, it hadn't been produced _yet_ , and he thought the longer he played this out, the better the chance that somebody, _anybody_ , would wander along and see what was happening.

He tried for a disarming smile and said, politely, "What if I say 'no'?"

Still no gun, but the guy didn't really need it to make a point. He growled, "My boss said to bring you. He don't like 'no'."

That was followed by a shrug, which loosened his jacket. It made the gun, still unseen, more conveniently accessible. Mark took the hint. The guy stepped to the side, just far enough to let him climb in.

Very nice, he decided, as he slid across and settled into the leather seat. Tinted windows, the works. He wished he'd convinced Mrs. Trask to let him help her with the carrying.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Just out the door of the station, Hardcastle spotted trouble coming. Normally, Mattie Groves would be a welcome sight, but the expression on her face warned him immediately.

"Milt Hardcastle," she said fiercely, "I _thought_ we were friends." Before he could begin a question, her scowl intensified even more. "I was sandbagged at lunch by Les Dalton in the courthouse cafeteria. He assumed I already _knew_ Gull's Way had been shot up last night, but oh, no! I had to smile and nod and pretend I knew exactly what he was gassing about because you -" she shot a finger at his chest – "didn't have the common decency to let me in on it. Honestly," she retracted the finger and crossed her arms militantly, "some _people_."

"Aw, c'mon, Mattie." The judge pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "I woulda called you to fill you in this afternoon. A lot's been going on, y'know, and things just kinda got away from me a little." He closed his eyes and sighed, re-opening one just enough to gauge her expression.

She squinted her own eyes right back at him. "And I suppose you were _eventually_ going to tell me Mark was shot? And that he's all right, even though he was filled with buckshot?"

"Yeah, he's fine." Hardcastle waved a hand in the general direction of Malibu. "Wouldn't even let me take him to the ER. Sooner or later, he's gonna have to have those pellets out, but they can wait a little longer. And anyway, you're not exactly Little Miss Forthcoming yourself. I just left Frank – " he jerked a thumb up and back, "who filled me in on the lab tech perjury hoo-ha. I notice you didn't pick up a phone last night and give us call about that."

She lowered her eyes and sniffed. "I just didn't want to go borrowing trouble, that's all. You know I don't like to look like a busybody." Seeing that got a smile from Hardcastle, she grinned back, then sobered again. "Listen, Milt, somebody's trying to kill Mark, that's obvious, and maybe even you, too. He's my client now, I take an interest in people trying to murder my clients. Milt, there must be something I can do to help. You know I get antsy standing on the sidelines."

"Well, you could take a run at Winnie Gault. Get the behind-the-scenes on his campaign to shake up the crime lab."

"Oh, no." She tilted her head and smiled gently. "I have a better idea. A much better idea."

00000

The tinted windows didn't prevent him from observing their route, which went northward for a good stretch along the PCH, taking him tantalizingly close to Gull's Way. He wondered, absently, if this might be his last glimpse of the estate. It might be that the guy with the gun just wanted him someplace where he wouldn't bleed on the upholstery.

They finally pulled off the highway, well north of Malibu. From there it was a short, winding trip up into the hills, followed by an abrupt turn into a small parking lot. The business that went with it was obviously a restaurant though the lights on the sign were out.

The sedan pulled up by the entrance. There was a fresh piece of tag-board in the window that read "Closed for Remodeling". McCormick's back-seat companion nudged him and stated the obvious. "We're here."

Mark nodded. He considered making a break for it. He thought he might get twenty feet or so before his keeper had a bead on him.

He had the door open on his side and one foot on the ground when he paused for a moment, his gaze drawn to the car on the far side of the lot. It was familiar, if only because he tended to remember vehicles he'd hot-wired. Of course it would take a closer inspection to be absolutely certain but—

The guy behind him gave him another nudge. "Go in, he's waiting."

He might be wrong about the car, but somehow being trusted to take the last few steps on his own put the whole encounter in a different light. He shelved the unpromising escape plan, got up, and crossed to the door. He cast one last look back at the aging vehicle. It might just be a coincidence. He sighed, pulled the door open, and stepped inside the restaurant.

It was a plunge into darkness after the bright afternoon sun. He stood there, blinking for a moment, then gradually became aware of a swatch of white—a cloth-covered table near the back. There was one man seated there and, as Mark's eyes adjusted, he saw the heaping plate of antipasto on the table.

Joe Cadillac, retired mobster, lifted a glass of red wine, an almost courtly salute. He took a sip and put the glass down. He gestured with the knife in his other hand—an ordinary butter knife, not a stiletto.

"You ought to try the calamari."

"No, thanks," Mark said, trying not to sound peeved. "Aren't you _ever_ going to prison?"

Cadillac gave him a considering look and then shrugged.

"Pre-trial motions, all that stuff. Out on bond. You know what they say, kid. It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings—and I got some mezzo-sopranos that can really hold a note. Try the calamari. Got some nice prosciutto here, too."

"You aren't by any chance trying to get me kicked out of law school, are you?"

"'Course not," Cadillac said indignantly. "My son'd have me down on my knees doing Hail Marys if I tried something like that—and I've got arthritis. Anyway, you get through the next two years and I'll make you an offer you can't refuse. Always looking for a few good mezzos."

"Ah, I appreciate the offer, but no. Hardcastle wouldn't settle for Hail Marys if I went to work for you." Mark looked puzzled. "So why the dinner invite?"

Cadillac cocked his head. "'Cause my boy says I still owe you and Hardcase one, and I'd like to tell him we're evened up."

"You know something about what's been going on?"

"Not much," Cadillac gave him a piercing look, "but the word on the street is there's a contract out on you."

"Me and the judge?"

"No, just you. And that's all I know. Don't even know if it got picked up yet."

Mark grimaced. One hand went unconsciously toward his left leg. "I think it did."

Cadillac gave him an eye, up and down. "Must not be very good at his job, huh? Hard to get good help without a retainer."

"I'll remember that. Are we even now?"

"I think so."

"Then I can't ask you to keep an ear to the ground and lemme know if you hear anything else?"

Cadillac snorted. "'To the ground'? I got arthritis _and_ lumbago."

"—And if you did hear anything, and you _did_ tell me, then _you'd_ be ahead. Sooner or later those mezzos are gonna run out of steam. Might be nice if you had a character witness at your sentencing hearing."

" _You_?"

"No, 'course not—Hardcastle."

The elderly mobster looked thoughtful. "So it's true what my son says—you're his mouthpiece."

Mark snorted. "Are you kidding? I haven't even got my first year finals back yet."

"No," Cadillac shook his head, "not like that. I mean _portavoce_ —you speak for him."

McCormick looked askance. "Not when he's near enough to hear me doing it."

The man who'd once had an iron grip on the West Coast mob chuckled. "Still, I think my boy is right. Your word is his."

"For this, I think so. Yeah."

Cadillac sat quietly for a moment, as though he were thinking it all through. He finally said, "Listen, I'll do it for you. Not for his good word. I don't need that. I'd rather have _him_ doin' the Hail Marys cause he owes me for keeping you off a slab."

"However you wanna slice it. Just keep an ear down for me, okay?" Mark looked around, then at Cadillac again. "And, um, one more thing. I need a lift back."

00000

It was a silent ride back down the PCH. McCormick didn't object when they turned in at the gate to Gull's Way. Going all the way back to campus to the Coyote at this point would have just meant a time-eating detour. He'd been glancing down at his watch surreptitiously on the journey back and knew, detour or not, he was unlikely to beat Hardcastle home.

The car stopped halfway up the drive, not yet within view of the house. The whole operation suggested a familiarity with the layout that gave McCormick uneasy pause. He stepped out and away from the sedan, and stood there, watching as the driver executed a neat three-point turn with the ungainly vehicle and pulled away with no farewell.

He glanced down at his watch one last time. Definitely later than he would have liked and too late to make hurrying of any benefit. He turned and trudged up the drive, hands in his pockets, rounding the final curve that revealed the house—and the Coyote, parked alongside the fountain.

That was Joe Cadillac making a statement, no doubt. He thought he'd have to work out the translation later though.

Hardcastle—apparently having spotted his approach, or maybe having heard the sedan, even out of sight down the driveway—was out on the porch. He was still too far off for Mark to make out his exact expression. It had fluxed quickly through something else but now looked to be settling on deep displeasure.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Ah . . . a late lunch. Or maybe an early dinner."

"You _walked_?"

Mark shook his head, taking a quick sideward glance at the Coyote as he strolled by it. At least for the moment he was pretty sure it didn't have any explosives under the hood, assuming Cadillac's guys had moved it there and not his unknown nemesis.

"No," he'd arrived at the front steps and Hardcastle stepped aside to let him pass, "I had a ride."

"You shoulda called. I get home, see the car, you're not here. What the hell was I supposed to think?"

What he had thought was clear as he twitched once and made a beeline for his desk and the phone.

"Gotta call off the dogs," he added in a mutter as he dialed a number they both knew by heart.

"Frank?" he grumbled into the receiver. "Yeah, he's home. Sorry about the false alarm." He glanced up at the reason for the APB and made a pretty good attempt at a scowl, only partly tempered by what was obviously relief. "Uh-huh," he muttered at the man on the other end of the line, "I'll tell him."

He hung up, still holding onto the scowl. "Frank says he thought law school was supposed make a guy more reliable."

"I know; I _shoulda_ called, but I think Cadillac might've taken that the wrong way. Me calling you and then you calling Frank and then Frank sending some of his guys around to check the place out."

"Cadillac?" Hardcastle frowned. "Why the hell did you go after him? His son isn't gonna let him take a whack at us. Hell, I didn't even put him on the list."

"I didn't go after him. He sent his guys around for me. He wanted to let me know there's a contract out on me."

"Huh," the judge grunted. "You think he really knows something? Or did he maybe hear what was happened and was just lookin' to score some points?"

"It didn't make the evening news—no visuals. You think he sits around listening to the police scanner? Anyway, he doesn't know who's hiring, or who got hired."

"Too bad."

"Hey, at least we got one guy who doesn't think we set it all up ourselves."

"I don't think we're gonna want to introduce _him_ as a character witness."

Mark smiled thinly. "Just so you know—the feeling is mutual. But he says he'll keep an ear down and let us know if he hears anything else."

Hardcastle didn't look too happy about that but nodded once. He pulled the chair out from his desk and settled himself into it, opening the right hand desk drawer and pulling out the list he'd been laboring over the past few days.

"Might need to rearrange our prospects a little. He said 'a contract'."

"Yeah, but that's just mob-speak, I figure."

"Hired killers don't have ads in the yellow pages—it takes contacts."

"I thought we decided Hawksworth wouldn't have dirtied his hands with mob types."

"But it sounds like somebody has," Hardcastle observed. "I think we can knock a few names off this list."

"Good," McCormick said. "Progress." He fell quiet for a moment.

Hardcastle had picked up a pencil and was scribbling something alongside one of the entries. He looked up and said, "What?" as though the silence had been a question.

"Ah," Mark fidgeted and then plunged ahead, "I was just wondering what Frank said. I mean, when you told him about the skeet shooting. How long did he think it'd be before the DA gets the word?"

Meaning, of course, how long did he have before he went back to being suspect number one on their list.

"I, um," Hardcastle wasn't making eye contact. "Actually, something else came up. Fits right in with your whole conspiracy theory."

"You mean they really are out to get me?" Mark sank into one of the wingbacks across from the desk. "Not that it comes as a big surprise." He sighed. "Go on, don't keep me in suspense."

Hardcastle explained, short and to the point, about the strange coincidence of a scandal in the police evidence labs now threatening the evidence that, however circumstantially, was the only thing linking Hawksworth to Randy Powers' shooting. McCormick sat, quietly absorbing the details. It was only a moment before the gears meshed and started turning.

"But…" He frowned, and then suddenly the tumblers clicked. "But if they retest the jacket and it's _negative_ —"

Hardcastle grinned. "Then we really will have proof that there's something hinky going on in that lab, because we _know_ he wore it shooting just two days before he died."

"Except…" McCormick looked doubtful.

"Except what?"

"I ran into today—Hawksworth's former secretary."

"You've been busy."

McCormick shrugged. "Anyway, she says there's more then one jacket. She knows that for sure because she gets his dry cleaning done."

"Of course there is. There'd _have_ to be if they wanted to pull a switch for the retesting."

"Okay, yeah, but what if he was wearing this second jacket the night he killed Randy?"

Hardcastle opened his mouth, then shut it without saying a word. The mental calculations were almost audible though.

"And if he was," Mark pointed out gently, "when they pull this switcheroo, the jacket's still going to test positive for gunpowder—which'll be a terrible disappointment to the conspirators, but puts us right back in the same spot we are now."

"Where's this second jacket now?"

"That's why she was at Hawskworth's office today. She thought it might be there. She wanted it ready for the funeral director once the ME released the body."

"It wasn't there, huh? At his place, maybe?"

Mark shook his head again. "Nope. She had a key. She looked. I didn't ask her if she thought it'd been stolen."

"You think one missing tweed jacket is going to raise a red flag with the DA?" Hardcastle muttered, "Somebody's already made the switch. Two jackets and one visit to Upton. I'd say we've got a fifty-fifty chance that the replacement jacket tests clean."

Mark tried to look hopeful. "That's better than—"

He was interrupted by the jangling ring of the phone. He barely avoided a visible twitch. Hardcastle reached for the receiver.

It was a terse conversation from the judge's end, though from the greeting Mark suspected the caller was Frank again. From Hardcastle's expression—grim at the outset and only becoming more so, Mark also suspected the news was not good.

"What now?" he asked as soon as the receiver had been recradled.

"The ME finally signed off on Hawksworth."

"Homicide?"

"Got it in one. Cyanide, ingested with coffee, and no source of either was found in the office."

"So someone took the cup away after he drank from it." Mark frowned. "But, hey, not _me_. I was still there in the office when the cops arrived."

"Come on, kiddo, it's a big building. There must be a couple hundred waste baskets. All you would have had to do is run down the stairs one flight, stick it in with a half-dozen others, under a pile of papers, and run back up again to do the search.'

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Mark said glumly.

"And I'm not even _trying_ to think of ways you could have done it. Those guys down at the DA's office are way more inventive than I am." Hardcastle heaved a sigh. "Problem is, the cops weren't even sure it was a crime scene that night, let alone know they'd be interested in coffee cups."

"But he was poisoned, and someone made a point of making it _not_ look like a suicide, taking the cup away like that." Mark looked up from his grim ponderings for a moment, shooting a sharp glance at the judge. "You _sure_ you don't want to level with Frank about the skeet shooting? We bet this wrong and you could wind up right next to me in the dock on a conspiracy charge."

"I already toldja that's only incidental information, barely circumstantial—"

"Not the jacket, maybe, not by itself, but how 'bout when one of those inventive ADAs starts imagining _you_ as the one who carried the cup off—stuffed it in your jacket pocket to protect your tuition investment. How's that other little sin of omission gonna look to everybody _then_?"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** : Most of this story was written by the incomparable L.M. Lewis. I had the honor of trying to finish it up and all the inferior parts are mine. Bonus points to any reader who can spot the joins.

 **Chapter Four**

Eventually McCormick went to bed. It was more to put his leg up; it had started nagging in a way that could only have been a reflection of his general state of mind.

Hardcastle, who had put his own head in the noose, had remained annoyingly calm throughout the evening, sitting placidly at his desk, studying files and making little grunts and occasional interrogatory sounds mostly to himself. And while he hadn't gone so far as to encourage it, he hadn't seemed disappointed at McCormick's early departure.

Maybe Mark had hoped things would look better in the morning. They hadn't, at least not to him. He limped over to the main house, heading around to the back door, where there were fewer steps to navigate. He was trying to work out the morning stiffness in what was now officially his game leg.

The light wasn't on in the den but as soon as he'd stepped in through the front door her heard Hardcastle's voice, too distant to distinguish the words, audible from the kitchen. The man was obviously up early. It was just as obvious, unless he'd taken to talking to himself, that he was already working the phone.

Mark wandered back to the kitchen. Hardcastle was just hanging up the phone. He looked determined.

"I think I finally got my hands on a loose end."

00000

Frank greeted them as they walked into the station. "He's downstairs in one of the interrogations rooms. Hasn't asked for a lawyer yet and I read him his rights, _twice."_

"No lawyer, huh? I'd say that's kinda interesting."

They trooped downstairs, McCormick decidedly favoring his left leg now. He got parked in the observation room. The judge and Frank proceeded on. The man waiting for them in the room next door was not the typical alleged felon. He looked every bit a bespectacled, low-level government employee who was far more used to being on the other side of the judicial process.

Frank only glanced up momentarily from an intimidatingly substantial file as he stepped into the room. "Kenneth Muller?"

"Yeah, that's me." Muller eyed Hardcastle suspiciously and then turned his attention back to the lieutenant. "Why'd you haul me down here?"

Frank glanced down at his paperwork again. "Got a bench warrant. Looks like contempt of court."

"But Gault—"

"Ah . . . not him."

Muller pointed at Hardcastle. " _He's_ not issuing warrants, is he?"

Hardcastle shook his head solemnly. "Nope, I'm retired."

"Then—"

"Judge Groves," Frank said crisply, as though it had no more meaning to him than any other judicial signature. "Know her? Looks like you were scheduled to testify in a case of hers. Hmm," he looked down again, "California v. Grabowski."

Muller frowned in thought for a moment and then said, "But that wasn't 'til next week."

"Probably rearranged her schedule. You must've missed the memo."

"And anyway, I've been suspended."

"Maybe so, but you were still on her witness list." Frank shrugged. "You stood the lady up. Bad form."

Muller's eyes narrowed. "I think I want a lawyer. This is crazy."

Frank gave that a small, slightly sympathetic nod. "Sounds that way, maybe some kinda mistake. You want me to check?"

"Yeah, of course," Muller relaxed just slightly. "A mistake."

Frank nodded again, flipped the file shut and said, "I'll be back. Might take a little while." He stepped toward the door.

"Hey," Muller said sharply, gesturing to Hardcastle again, "he's staying?"

"You got a problem with that?" Hardcastle said cheerfully. "You don't have to talk to me. Thought you might want to listen, though. I know a few things about what's going on that maybe you don't know about."

He slid into the seat across the table from Muller who looked suspicious again but didn't protest any further.

Frank closed the door behind himself, leaving the two men alone. Muller looked over toward the one-way glass on the wall nervously.

Hardcastle shook his head. "If you know anything about me, you know I'm a straight-shooter, right? And you know the rules. You've already called a time-out so nothing you say is any good as evidence against you until you've spoken to counsel. Anyway, I'm not all that interested in _you_."

"Yeah, okay," Muller said with grudging curiosity. "So what is it you think you know?"

The judge didn't bother to pull out a file. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table and his right thumb hooked up, as though he were getting ready to tick off some points.

"First, I know this thing is way bigger than you think it is. I don't know what the going rate for perjury is, maybe you're figuring you got a good deal. Or maybe this guy's lawyer got a hook in you, some old case where you took some money under the table. He says play ball or he takes _that_ to the DA, to try for a mistrial on this case. Makes sense he'd do something like that, doesn't it?"

Muller had gone a shade paler. It was all the encouragement Hardcastle needed.

"'Course he told you it didn't _have_ to be that way, right? Just tell Gault you'd screwed the evidence up. Use any excuse you like and take the fall. Chances are, confessing to the court like that, you'd get away with a slap on the wrist. Of course you'd lose your job, but there was the big payoff and, anyway," he added consideringly, "there's always private consulting work. Did he offer you some of that, too?"

The lab tech had regained his composure. He even managed a shrug that seemed to indicate it was no difference to him what the man across the table thought.

The judge smiled narrowly. "A smart guy like you—plenty of time in the courtroom. But you didn't figure Gault would call a grand jury and all your recent cases would be audited? Or maybe you figured everything else you'd done recently was clean?"

Muller frowned again and finally spoke. "I told them—the DA's office. It was a one-time mistake. I was under a lot of stress—a family emergency..."

"At least lying to them won't count as perjury."

"I _didn't_ lie. There's only that one case. _One_ mistake."

"So far."

Muller sat back in his chair but looked suddenly very focused; the wheels were apparently turning.

"Let's see," Hardcastle considered his hand again, as though he might need a couple more fingers to tally it up, "up to four years for each count. Whatever this guy offered you, you're going to have to prorate it over eight, maybe twelve years." Hardcastle looked sympathetic, as if at the injustice of it all, but he added sternly, "And don't think they won't make an example of you, embarrassing the hell out of your bosses and the DA and all."

" _One_ mistake."

"Yeah, I'd say so, trusting some shyster who said he just wanted to get his client a mistrial. One big mistake, thinking that was all there was to it."

The man sat there, sullenly silent. It looked as if there was no further progress to be made. The judge sighed and started to rise, Muller shot him a sudden, piercing look. Hardcastle gave him a long count. Still nothing.

"Well," he said dryly, "when you change your mind about being a stand-up guy, the lieutenant knows where to reach me."

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, followed shortly by a tap on the door that swung open almost immediately. It was Harper, whose timing was the consequence of having gone no further than the observation room. Muller fixed on him, tense and suspicious.

The lieutenant's expression remained bland.

"I talked to her. Told her what you told me—about the suspension and all. The warrant's been voided. Looks like you're free to go." He tucked the folder under his arm. "She's not happy, though."

"Lots of people feeling that way right now," Hardcastle said, directing his gaze at Muller.

"Yeah," Harper gave the notion a nod, "maybe having to declare a mistrial." He smiled thinly. "If I were you I think I might rather be in protective custody."

Muller looked pretty unhappy himself but not willing to stay.

"I'll have 'em show you out," Harper said pleasantly.

"Never mind, I know the way," Muller muttered. He was already on his feet and pushing by the other two.

Hardcastle leaned out into the hall behind him, raising his voice slightly to say, "Left at the end, and up the stairs," to the retreating figure, who didn't acknowledge the helpful advice.

Then, the company having departed, he turned to Frank sharply. "You trotted back in here a little quick, dontcha think?"

"Uh-uh—he was starting to hunker down. You shook him, though. We'll just have to wait and see."

The next door down the hall opened tentatively, as if the occupant were checking to see if the hallway was clear. It was and Mark stepped out, looking even less happy than Hardcastle.

"Anyway," Frank said, "he asked for his lawyer. You know it's better if I don't hear any confessions after that."

"And I told ya, he's the little fish. He's not the one we want."

"But he might be the only one we get," Mark said glumly.

"Nope," Hardcastle said decisively, "the only way he can save himself is by ratting out whoever bribed him." He looked at Frank sharply again. "And you've got him covered, right? We already know the guy who paid him hires hit men."

Frank waved off the concern. "Done. At least for now. Ask me again in a couple shifts if nothing comes to a boil." He glanced at Mark. "Nobody's tried to off you again recently?"

Mark shook his head, looking a little disappointed.

00000

They retired to Frank's office for a decent interval, though McCormick looked increasingly impatient and even blurted out, "What next?" at one point.

The judge shot him a glance which was part unspoken admonition. They were with company, and even though it was _just_ Frank, Hardcastle wasn't feeling very forthright. They said their goodbyes to the lieutenant, who promised to keep them posted.

It wasn't until they were back outside that Mark turned to the judge again.

"Now we just wait? How much longer do we have before it's me in that room with a couple of homicide detectives? I think we ought to at least go over my story."

Hardcastle gave him a thin smile. "It's not a 'story'. And nothing's gonna happen until that second jacket gets processed. I'm guessing that'll be today." He glanced down at his watch and then up again. "Relax, we got five hours at least. Maybe six."

Mark paled.

"And," Hardcastle went on, speaking with firm reassurance, "if the jacket's clean, we haul in to testify about the missing one."

"But if it's still got residue—"

"Then the guys who set this up will be mighty surprised and it'll take 'em a little while to recoup." He hoped he'd sounded confident.

"But you'll have to tell Frank about Upton and the skeet-shooting."

"Yeah," Hardcastle admitted reluctantly.

00000

Their next stop was a non-descript store-front on Sepulveda on which hung a sign stating this was the law office of Martin Yertz. It was evident that this wasn't the rarified corporate practice, or even high-stakes criminal law, but Yertz knew his rights. All conversation about witness bribing was firmly deflected and eventually, the lawyer lost what little patience he'd started with.

"Mr. Muller's malfeasance is the only criminal act with any bearing at this point—an act which very nearly cost my client his freedom." Yertz glared at the two men facing him over his shabby desk. "I think this conversation has gone as far as it's going to. My client's affairs are confidential and my time is valuable." He stood and waited impatiently for Hardcastle and McCormick to leave.

Outside, it was getting warmer, in temperature and in detection.

"So what did we accomplish there?" Mark saw that the judge had noticed his limp and made an effort to walk normally.

"Well, first off we know Muller contacted him. I've never met the guy and you can bet he wasn't high enough in all of this to know what was what, so he must've gotten a heads-up."

"Okay, but he looks pretty solid. No cracks."

"You know they're watching us, don'tcha?"

"You mean the Buick—midnight blue, '86. Looks like a rental."

Hardcastle squinted a quick glance down the street, keeping it casual, then back at McCormick. "You sure that's an '86?"

Mark gave him an impatient look. "Yes. And that's what I'll have 'em put on the police report after they run us off the road. An '86."

"Only these guys aren't going to follow us. Dollars to donuts they're really here to keep an eye on our shyster buddy in there."

"But he's solid."

"That's the problem with conspiracies these days. Nobody really trusts anybody. We meet with Muller, then we show up here. What's the guy on top gonna think? You can't buy loyalty."

Mark cast a worried look back at the storefront office. "They're gonna _kill_ him?"

"Not as long as he stays put in there, I'm hoping. But if they try," he nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

"The florist van," Mark said, not glancing that way, " _really_?" He wrinkled his nose slightly. "That's such a cliché."

"Frank's a traditionalist. Besides, we _want_ them to know we've got an eye on them. We're trying to apply a little back pressure here. Get up a head of steam."

"Why not just bust the guy in the Buick?"

"For what, parking on a public street? And you can bet he's just hired muscle."

"Like the lawnmower assassin?"

"That seems to be our mastermind's M.O."

"Okay," Mark sighed his resignation, "who should we go annoy next?"

"Mattie, I think."

00000

The drive to the courthouse complex was, to McCormick's disappointment, uneventful. They even found a parking space that met his specifications.

"The outdoor lot?" It was a polite but puzzled inquiry from Hardcastle as he stepped out of the Coyote.

"Better light," Mark said tersely. "I think I'm gonna get one of those mirrors with a long handle for checking under the car. Clipped brake lines, bombs—you know."

The judge gave that a considering nod; being familiar with the list of suspects.

"Maybe a telescoping handle," Hardcastle said, with a nod to the vehicle, "takes up less space."

It might have been that consideration that distracted him. He hadn't noticed the man, walking toward them with a determined step, until he saw the look of unease on Mark's face at the sharply barked, " _You_ , I should've figured you were behind this somehow."

Hardcastle swiveled. The face went with the voice—both familiar, if occasionally adversarial. This was one of those times that called for tact, something that was in short supply at the moment. Still, he tried.

"Winnie," he said cordially.

Judge Gault wasn't buying. He stalked up, not so close that he had to tilt his chin back to address his old bench-mate, but near enough to punctuate things with a sharp finger poke to Hardcastle's chest.

"You—" he spared one irritated glance at McCormick, "and _him._ You put her up to this, I'll bet. Don't try and deny it."

Hardcastle didn't. He just shrugged casually.

"Harassing a grand jury witness," Gault sputtered. "Influencing an ongoing investigation."

"A legally executed warrant and a half-hour at a police station does not constitute harassment," Hardcastle corrected him mildly. "You talked to Mattie?"

"Yeah." Gault's expression closed up. "She said to talk to you."

"Good." Hardcastle clapped his hands together in satisfaction and took his erstwhile colleague by the elbow. "You look like you could use a cup of coffee. Maybe a bearclaw or something."

Gault shook himself free and straightened his sleeve with a huff. "You can pull that stuff with Mattie—God knows she's always had a soft spot for him." He jerked his chin toward McCormick. "But that crap doesn't work with me. I've issued a warrant of my own."

McCormick went suddenly rigid but Gault had already taken a deep breath and plunged on—

"I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I want Muller where I can keep an eye on him."

Hardcastle ignored the stifled gasp of relief from the man at his side. He stayed focused on Gault.

"That sounds okay to me, Winnie. Good idea even." This calm, accepting tone stopped Gault in mid-tirade.

He drew back slightly, as though he suspected a trick, and then muttered, "You won't get at him in there; I'll see to it."

"No problem." Hardcastle spread his arms slightly, palms up. "He's all yours. I already told him everything I know."

Gault's frown deepened but he very clearly didn't want to admit that Hardcastle might have information that he didn't.

"Sure I can't interest you in a cup of coffee?" Hardcastle said mildly.

" _No_." Gault's lips tightened for a moment, then he blurted out, "Just what the hell do you think you know?"

Hardcastle cocked his head, as though he were debating whether he ought to take the other man into his confidence. The effect had Gault leaning in slightly, looking as if he were going to start insisting on some answers.

"Okay, okay." Hardactle reached out to pat him on the shoulder. Gault flinched away, looking irritated.

"Well," Hardcastle sighed, "I've just been wondering who put the bee in your bonnet—that whole grand jury thing."

"It was _my_ idea," Gault said indignantly. "Without proper chain of evidence there's no rule of law. Hell, if you can't trust the evidence what _can_ you trust?" He shot another sharp glance at McCormick. "Properly _acquired_ evidence."

Mark gave that a solemn and earnest nod.

Gault huffed and turned back to Hardcastle. " _You_ used to believe that, didn't you?"

It was one of those trick questions with no right answer so Hardcastle blithely ignored it. He also didn't question Gault's recollection directly, though he was pretty sure it was self-serving.

He just smiled and said, "Yup, truth, justice, and the American way—and solid evidence is pretty much the only way to get at the truth."

"Exactly." Gault gave that a sharp duck of his chin, glad to be back on firmer ground. He even relaxed slightly.

"Bu-ut," Hardcastle drawled, "I know _somebody's_ mighty happy that Muller's past work is getting rechecked."

Gault's frown was back. He couldn't help himself when it popped out. "Who?"

"Dunno who yet." Hardcastle eyed him consideringly. "But I'm thinking he was there when you were making up your mind, just to give you a little nudge . . . maybe some encouragement."

"I didn't need any encouragement," Gault said stiffly.

"'Course not. Sure about the coffee?"

Gault sniffed once and shook his head. Hardcastle barely had time for a small wave of farewell as the man pivoted and stalked away to his own vehicle. A moment later he was in it, casting one more stern look in their direction as he pulled out.

Hardcastle stood, hands in pockets, and watched him depart.

"Whaddaya think?" Mark asked. "Is he in on it?"

"Winnie?" The judge shook his head. "Nah, he thinks too highly of himself to ever be on the take." He shot a look at McCormick. "He doesn't like you very much, though."

"Enough to help a friend out with getting me framed?"

"Not that much, but enough that, as long as you were in earshot, he'll never 'fess up to having let somebody hornswoggle him. Too bad," he made a face and held up his thumb and finger, "we were this close."

"Sorry," Mark said glumly.

"Hah. I wasn't even sure he'd needed anybody to talk him into that whole grand jury thing."

"And now you are?"

"Pretty sure. You saw how his hackles were up. This is real progress."

McCormick stared off in the direction Gault had taken, and then finally back at Hardcastle.

"Okay, why?"

"You don't know Winnie. He _hates_ being managed. He's thinking about that possibility really hard right now. I'll bet my last nickel that he's gonna pay a visit to whoever it was that talked to him—the guy who planted the grand jury idea, or just watered it and made sure it took root."

Mark frowned. "Is that safe?—for Gault, I mean."

"Yeah, pretty safe. Hell, Winnie's got no proof. Anyway, that guy may not even be _our_ guy—just another link in the chain, like Muller and Yertz. But either way, our guy is going to hear about it."

"And he'll figure why kill Gault when we're the real problem, huh?"

"Exactly."

McCormick quirked a smile. "We really gotta get that mirror on a stick." His gaze shifted past Hardcastle and his smile froze abruptly. "What's she doing?"

The judge turned and saw Mattie Groves, who'd just exited the building by a little-used side door and paused to drop something in the waste can by the door. Then she turned and walked toward the front corner of the building, appearing not to have noticed them.

Mark lifted a hand to wave at her. He'd gotten as far as opening his mouth, probably to shout a greeting. Hardcastle grabbed his sleeve and tugged it down with a sharp, "Uh-uh."

"Huh?" Mark looked at him. "We came here to see her."

Hardcastle shook his head. "That's an 'emergency exit only', sport, and she's got a waste basket in her chambers." He frowned. "That was a drop, I'm guessing."

He waiting until she was out of sight then headed toward the building at a sudden lope, McCormick hustling to catch up.

It was there on the ground next to the can—a small piece of paper, crumpled but otherwise unsoiled as if it had been recently deposited.

"A drop?" Mark said incredulously.

Hardcastle glanced around, saw nobody, then bent and scooped it up.

"Yeah," he muttered as he turned and started back to the car, McCormick still dogging his heels.

They were there, and back inside—having said nothing more—before he flattened the paper out and looked at it. There wasn't much to scrutinize, four letters and three numbers. He showed it to McCormick.

"CAPC." Mark frowned. "California Penal Code?"

"Got it in one."

"Hmm. 168." He leaned across Hardcastle and popped the button on the glove compartment, riffling one-handed through the small stack of maps and extracting a thin booklet from near the bottom.

Hardcastle eyed it as it was pulled out—not the most recent vintage and obviously well-thumbed. "You're kidding."

Mark glanced up from his current thumbing. "About felonies and misdemeanors—never. Here," he said, holding it open to the proper page, "in section seven. 'Other Offenses Against Public Justice."

Hardcastle scanned the relevant paragraph and frowned. "Kinda what I was figuring."

"Don't tell me—you have the whole thing memorized. And you make fun of me for having a copy handy."

"Not the _whole_ thing," Hardcastle protested. "It's just that her ducking us like that, I figured it must mean something like this."

"So, in a nutshell, an officer of the court can't give someone advanced notice that they're about to be arrested."

Hardcastle nodded.

Mark looked puzzled. "I thought Gault was only putting Muller in custody."

"Looks like the warrant duty judge has had a busy morning. Frank must've given Mattie a heads up, and it must've happened before or after Gault was up there."

Mark glanced up at the side of the building, toward the third floor window that belonged to Mattie's chambers. "She looked out, saw us talking to him. Hah, my mom was right—'naming calls'."

"Speak of the devil and he appears," Hardcastle said solemnly. "No sooner does she get wind of the warrant, then the guy named in it shows up on her doorstep."

"So which one of us is the guy?"

There was a moment of clearly incredulous silence from the judge.

"Hah," Mark managed a half-smile, a little tight, "sure it's me this time, but you just wait until Upton comes forward." His expression went more serious. "There's still time. You go to Frank right now and tell him everything. I mean _everything._ The skeet-shooting incident _and_ the little fudgy bits about you being my alibi for that first murder."

"You mean cut you loose and watch you flap in the wind?"

"No, just do what you ought to have done in the first place. Stick to the straight and narrow and trust the system. Isn't that your motto?"

"I think that's two mottos." Hardcastle frowned. "Anyway, we don't even know the basis for the warrant. Hell, if it's the clean sleeve on the substitute jacket we're in the clear—we get Mrs. Trask to testify about the missing one and we're home free."

"What if it's something else? I'd kinda like to know before I let 'em slap the handcuffs on me."

"Can't call Frank. It'd be a 168 for him, too."

"I know somebody," Mark said.

00000

They decided to risk it, taking the Coyote rather than trying to hail a cab. McCormick stopped only once, at a secluded phone booth off Hill Street. Hardcastle stayed in the vehicle, looking not very happy, while Mark dropped the dime and did the dialing from heart.

It was a short conversation; even this far from the police station and the courthouse, and without any florist vans in sight, he felt exposed. He was glad the okay to come ahead had been offered with no insistence on a lot of back story.

Hardcastle still looked unhappy as they pulled up at their destination. Mark had tucked the Coyote in next to a van in the alley by the back door, out of sight from the street, but concealment didn't seem to be the issue. He turned to the judge before he climbed out.

"Okay, we agreed, didn't we? It's safer than driving around and there's a chance he'll have some information. I _trust_ him."

"He's not the problem." Hardcastle glanced over his shoulder, pointing to the older-model but high-end sedan parked halfway down the alley, the driver's seat occupied.

"Well I kinda figured it was a package deal, but if it makes you feel any better, I didn't ask him to tap his old man." Mark shrugged and clambered out, then leaned back into the car. "You coming?"

"Yeah, yeah," Hardcastle grumbled, pulling himself up out of the seat.

"And I'll try and remember to tell him this wasn't your idea," Mark added solicitously.

Hardcastle made a face, but managed to straighten it out before the door opened to McCormick's knock, with Father Atia greeting them warmly. The judge sighed only once, and almost inaudibly, as they were beckoned in.

The young priest led them down the narrow back hallway of St. Medard's parish rectory, pausing only when they'd reached a slightly wider anteroom and turning to Mark. "Pop was here when you called. He's been telling me some of what's been going on."

Mark nodded and said, "That's okay." He shot a sharp glance at Hardcastle. "Right?"

There was hardly any grimace to accompany the judge's resigned, "Yeah, it's fine. The more the merrier."

Atia looked a little worried as he opened the door and stepped aside to let them enter the front room. It was comfortably furnished with slightly out-of-date furniture and otherwise occupied by only one man, who stood, hands clasped loosely behind him, pondering the street view through half-closed blinds, an old and cautious habit, no doubt.

Joe Cadillac turned as they entered, greeting them with a solemn nod followed by a casual gesture toward the window. "Can't be too careful. Wouldn't want to be caught hob-nobbing with fugitives."

" _Dad_ ," Atia said, mildly reproving.

Cadillac managed a half-smile. "My apologies. I promised my boy I'd behave." Then he turned suddenly serious again, addressing McCormick this time.

"I've been doing a little poking around since we talked, like you asked."

Mark gave Hardcastle a nervous glance, but refocused on Cadillac. " _And_?"

"And I ask ya, what kind of a crazy man leaves a mess like this? If my people did something like that, there's be the devil to pay—" He winced and shot an apologetic look toward his son. "Old navy expression."

"Sure, Pops." The young priest smiled gently.

Cadillac heaved a sigh. "I'm just sayin', a couple of kids dead, a law professor, the guy's secretary—"

Mark's sudden, " _What_?" was echoed from the judge's direction.

"Yeah," Cadillac gave them both a sharp, questioning look, "you didn't know? Huh, I thought you guys were pretty tapped in."

"Mrs. Trask . . . I just saw her yesterday," Mark said quietly.

"Yeah, well, they found her this morning." Cadillac added, with a thin, humorless smile, "Strangled, I heard. It hasn't made the news yet."

Hardcastle grimaced. "Where?"

"Over by the university. Some dean reported her missing; said she hadn't shown up for a meeting yesterday and wasn't answering her phone. There she was, next to some bushes right on campus all along. See, that's sloppy, too."

" _Dad—_ " Atia's expression was deeply disapproving.

Cadillac shrugged an apology. "I'm just saying, this leavin' the remains where somebody's bound to trip over them—the guy has no standards. Either that or he's the kind that thinks the standards don't apply to him."

"Or he wanted her body to be found, pronto." Hardcastle frowned. "Don't suppose you've heard anything else this morning."

Cadillac raised one eyebrow. "You mean who asked for the warrant? Give ya one guess. "

Hardcastle didn't look in the mood for games and Father Atia backed him up with another stern look.

Cadillac sighed. "You would've gotten it in one—it's that hard-assed DA, Thompson. You guys must've pissed him off something royal. I hear he's gunnin' for the kid here." He jerked his thumb at McCormick.

"Looks pretty circumstantial to me," he went on with a professional and considering air. "A couple witnesses that saw him hanging around there yesterday, and I hear they got his fingerprints on something that was in her pocket, one of those computer things, a disk."

The accused looked stricken. Even Atia seemed unsettled, and not by his dad's slightly salty language.

Hardcastle had also gone quiet. There was a pregnant pause during which he might have been doing some complex judicial calculations. It only took a moment, followed by a quick assessing look at his old mob nemesis.

"Listen," he said, leaning forward slightly, "I need a favor."

00000

The favor was duly obtained—a slightly dinged '84 Buick Regal. It was black and, by Coyote standards, non-descript.

McCormick gave it a quick once-over and a nod of approval. "GNX, turbo-charged."

Hardcastle glanced at the dealer plates and then at Davey, Cadillac's long-term factotum, who'd delivered it to the back door of the rectory.

"Just call it an extended test drive," Davey said laconically. "Does zero to sixty in under 8. Nice for getaways." He exchanged keys with McCormick, looking disparagingly at his own new temporary ride. "I told Mr. C he shoulda sent one of the little guys."

"Ya don't really get into it; you sorta put it on," Hardcastle said encouragingly.

Davey nodded and stepped into the Coyote, shimmying down awkwardly. Mark watched worriedly as he started it up and eased it into gear, but the man retained his reputation for seamless driving skills as he pulled away.

"Don't worry," Hardcastle said, "It'll be fine. I told him to keep it in a garage."

"Up on blocks, twenty-five-to-life," Mark said dourly. He glanced at the replacement vehicle again. "We gonna need that zero-to-sixty thing?"

"You heard Joe. It's all circumstantial."

"Yeah, but it's kinda cumulative. I was with her; we walked out of the building together."

"And then Cadillac's guys grabbed you."

"Great alibi. We'll be hauling them in to testify."

"If we have to," Hardcastle said stoutly.

"And in the meantime?"

"We're not going down to Harper's office, at least not yet."

"I knew that," Mark said disapprovingly, "otherwise we wouldn't need the used car with the dealer plates. I still think you're making a mistake not straightening your part of this out while you still can."

"Listen, the warrant changes nothing. It hasn't been served and we've only got a convicted criminal's word that it even was issued."

"Mrs. Trask—"

" _Rumors_ —that's it. We're still free agents."

"Okay," Mark said doubtfully. "So what's next?"

There was only a momentary hesitation on Hardcastle's part. He knew what was next but not quite how to put it. The frown on McCormick's made his mind up quick enough.

"You take the car."

Mark glanced again at the Buick and then at the judge.

"Take it where? And why?"

"Go see a friend. Not Teddy Hollins," the judge added abruptly. "That London girl . . . no, maybe not her either. Somebody who isn't on the witness list for this case. How's that sound?"

"Sounds like hiding out, kimo sabe. How far do you want me to go?"

"Not far. Just somewhere for the next few hours."

"You want to be able to say you don't know where the hell I am, huh?"

Hardcastle made a face but then admitted, "Yeah, something like that."

"Good," Mark gave that a sharp nod, "you're finally getting some common sense in your old age."

"Dammit, I'm not cutting you loose. I think we're close to a break-through here. I just need a coupla hours."

"Really?" The younger man looked suddenly more interested.

"Yeah, we know something they don't know."

"Besides that I'm innocent?"

"Yeah, besides that. Think about it. We know why Mrs. Trask was where she was when she was killed."

"She was on her way to the dean's office, or maybe on her way back."

"You didn't see anybody following her when you two left the building, did you?"

"Ah," it was Mark's turn to hesitate but he finally shook his head, "no, nobody. 'Course I'm the guy who didn't spot Cadillac's goons until they were right behind me in the parking lot. All this book learning, I might be losing my edge, ya know?"

"Uh-uh. Nobody was following her because nobody wanted her dead until _after_ she met with Dean Thomas."

Mark considered that for a moment and then looked suddenly appalled. "You mean because she was still talking about the missing second coat?" He swallowed hard. "I should have—"

"What? Guessed that Thomas was a psychopathic killer? He's a law school _dean_ , for chrissake."

"And Hawksworth was a professor, that didn't stop him."

"Besides," Hardcastle reasoned on stubbornly, "we don't know for sure it was _him_ , only that if it wasn't, he must've dropped a dime to whoever did do the killing. He _knows_."

"Either way, he's dangerous."

"I'm pretty dangerous myself, kiddo."

"You should talk to Frank. Please, just this once be sensible and do it by the book."

"Well, I can't do anything until you get in that Buick and hightail it out of here." Hardcastle glanced down at his watch. "Time's a'wasting; it's almost one. Gimme three hours and then give the padre here a call. I know you know his number."

Mark nodded but didn't look too happy as he climbed into the car. He seemed keenly aware that he hadn't gotten any direct assurances from the judge about arranging for backup before he approached Dean Thomas.

" _Please_?" he asked one more time.

"Git." Hardcastle slapped the side of the car. "Three hours. Broad daylight. Everything'll be fine, you'll see."

He watched McCormick pull away. It was no test of the Buick's accelerating capabilities but, after one last admonitory backwards look, he did finally pull onto the street. Hardcastle heaved a sigh of relief, stuffed his hands in his pockets, turned, and started down the alley in the opposite direction.

He figured he'd hike a block or two, put some distance between himself and St. Medards before calling a cab, no point in drawing any unnecessary attention to what he hoped would be able to remain his unnamed sources. As optimistic as he had made the prospects sound to McCormick, the whole thing was still a dicey proposition. There was still a real possibility that they'd be no closer to the truth in three more hours. He wondered what message he'd be sending along via Father Atia in that case.

 _Run for it_.

No. Anyway, he doubted if McCormick would listen. More likely the kid would insist that this, too, had to be played by the book, at least as long as there was any risk of suspicion falling on his accessory.

00000

Mark drove with studied caution, though a good part of his concentration was elsewhere. Part of that was on Hardcastle—the odds of him being sensible approached zero in a way that would throw a wrench into any betting system.

Another part was the nagging "what if?"

It didn't require all that much imagination, the way things had been going lately, that this latest string in the maddening web would turn out to be just another loose end—connected to nothing, or maybe another dead body. He shuddered at the thought of Hardcastle bulldozing his way into the dean's office only to find _him_ freshly dead behind his desk.

But though that was an unlikely possibility, he hoped, even Hardcastle couldn't always work miracles. If four o'clock came and passed with no better suspect than the usual recently pardoned ex-con, what would he do?

 _You'll turn yourself in._

He'd known the answer to the question almost before he'd asked it. He couldn't run, even if this surely untraceable Buick with power to spare was some sort of subliminal suggestion on Hardcastle's part.

 _Is it?_

He didn't think he wanted to know.

No, he'd ditch the car, and turn himself in and hope he wasn't hauling anyone else down with him. Maybe it'd take some sort of _nolo contendere_ to finally staunch this relentless flow of blood.

So, he had maybe three hours, at the outside, before he dropped a dime on himself. After that he'd be sucked back into the all-too-familiar system. It wasn't a lot of time but, if that _was_ all he had, he thought he ought to spend it wisely. And, besides, where would be the absolute least likely place anyone would think a wanted fugitive such as himself would hide out?

One perfunctory check, right at the start, and after that it would almost certainly be a blind spot in the search pattern. He turned north at the next intersection, heading for the PCH and Gull's Way.

00000

Hardcastle had flagged down the first cab he encountered. He'd been tempted to offer the driver an extra sawbuck if he didn't dawdle on the way over to campus, but the notion of getting pulled over by some diligent cop for running a stop sign hadn't appealed to him. He also preferred to keep the ride as anonymous as possible, even tilting his down cap slightly to minimize the eye contact time via the rearview mirror.

Even without the incentive, the mid-afternoon transit had been fairly efficient, though he'd found himself checking his watch, feeling the minutes ticking by implacably. But he'd arrived, finally. Not in front of Dodd Hall, of course, but a corner near the edge of campus.

He paid off the cabby—the tip was moderate, not enough to draw attention—and moved off at something just more than an amble. Still between terms, the place was relatively quiet. Would the dean be in his office? Surely the cops were finished with him by now. He'd already decided that was his best bet; he only hoped his own run of bad luck had finally played itself out.

He stepped into a coffee shop just a block down from Dodd. It had a public phone in its foyer; complete with both city and campus directories. Change deposited, he dialed the number listed for the dean's office. The woman who answered sounded tense and harassed. It had probably been a long day even by this point in the afternoon—bodies, cops, questions.

Hardcastle kept it official-sounding and brusque, "Got a couple more things for your boss. Won't take long."

He'd hit the nail on the head. This was probably the umpteenth of such calls, punctuated by a couple of visitors to the office. The woman didn't even seem to register the lack of introduction. There was a sound of a stifled sigh as she connected him through to the inner sanctum.

Dean Thomas answered wearily. "What's left? I think we've been over it all enough times already."

"Sorry to disturb you," Hardcastle said mildly. "I'm sure you've got a lot on your mind."

He'd heard a sharp intake of breath as soon as he'd spoken. He had little doubt that his voice had been recognized. He pressed on.

"We need to talk."

"I've already told the police everything I know."

"Okay, then I'll just call them up and tell them everything _I_ know."

There was a moment of tense silence from the other end and then, "Not here, and not on the phone."

"Fine." Hardcastle looked over his shoulder, across the street. "There's a nice quiet spot, east of your building about a block, right across from the coffee shop on Founder's Street. Got a bench and everything."

"I know the place."

"Good. See you in, say, ten minutes?"

There was no response from the other end, just a slightly too loud click as the phone was hung up in a way that suggested the dean was perturbed. Hardcastle put his own receiver back on the hook. He briefly considered picking it up again and dialing Frank. He knew McCormick would approve but once he let that genie out of the bottle he'd lose all control over it, and control was going to be critical for what was coming next.

00000

The first issue was the Buick, whose presence at the estate, when the hammer finally came down, would lead to awkward questions. He considered parking it down the road at Coral Beach—too close, and he might be remembered by some camper with nothing better to do than people watch.

Zuma, though, that was big enough to guarantee some anonymity. It'd be a longer hike, especially if he stayed off the PCH, where a hiker would be more noticeable. But he could take the side streets across Point Dume and, thanks to Hardcastle having backed the town council on the issue of public beaches, make the rest of the trek along the coast. It might be his last walk on the beach for a long time, he thought.

00000

Hardcastle, not having been born yesterday, stayed in the foyer of the coffee shop until he spotted his quarry coming up the street. The Dean Thomas looked furtive, though the judge thought that might have been his own over-hopeful imagination. Irritated, definitely, but that might have been projection.

Hardcastle sighed. The guy was alone, that was the important thing, and had come, willing or not, which in itself was enough convincing evidence that he was on the right track.

The judge stepped out of the foyer, essayed a wave, and looked very carefully in both directions before he stepped into the street. Thomas would have had to have been sitting in his office with a co-conspirator to have arranged a hit this fast, but it didn't pay to take chances.

"Let's take a little walk," he said to the dean as he approached.

Thomas didn't look happy but fell in next to him. It all looked collegial enough. The man hadn't said anything, on the other hand, he hadn't asked for his lawyer yet.

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't think you're Mr. X," Hardcastle said bluntly.

Thomas pulled up sharply, in a very good imitation of baffled surprise. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The guy who killed Hawksworth and Mrs. Trask."

Thomas pinched his lips slightly and than spat out, "No, that would be your protégé, I believe."

He didn't actually sound all that convincing when he said it, though Hardcastle had no doubt he'd be able to crank up a believable amount of indignation on a witness stand.

He turned and started walking again as he waved the objection away with a simple, "Nope, not McCormick. That's off the table. Let's talk about X. You know who he is. I wasn't sure before but now I am."

He didn't bother to glance to his side. Thomas's breathing was enough of a tell.

"See," he said simply, "it's like this. Mrs. Trask was going about her business, knowing whatever she knew, for a couple of weeks now, not bothering anyone and nobody bothering her, then suddenly she's running an errand and she gets killed."

"McCormick."

"Why?"

"To get the computer files, I presume. Perhaps to keep _me_ from getting them."

"He's had access to them for a couple days now." Hardcastle did turn this time, just to catch the flush of indignation. It looked pretty genuine.

" _How—_?"

"Mrs. Trask was on leave. He was helping the temporary crew sort things out. It's all on the up-and-up."

"Then he _was_ interested in those files."

Hardcastle shook his head gently. "Don't think that one's gonna wash. Try another. Let's see, how 'bout this—Mrs. Trask had something on her mind besides the files."

He paused for dramatic effect and then added, solemnly, "Funeral arrangements."

This time there was no indignation, just a sudden, silent pallor. Hardcastle pursued his initiative.

"I'm betting your secretary wasn't in the office yesterday afternoon. That'll be easy enough to check. Mrs. Trask arrives with the records. She hands them to you but she's still got that other issue on her mind. There's a missing tweed jacket, the perfect mate to the one Hawksworth was wearing the day he died. She's looked everywhere for it.

"You smile and tell her everything will be fine." Hardcastle paused again and glanced at his companion.

Everything did not look fine with the dean. His lips were tight, his expression closed and wary.

"Okay," the judge forced a small smile of his own, "let's give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you didn't know the second jacket had been taken by Mr. X, that it was part of some kinda elaborate plan to get around the physical evidence that Hawksworth had fired a gun recently."

"Of course I knew no such thing," Thomas said tightly.

Hardcastle granted that an understanding nod. It was forward progress that the man was more interested in distancing himself from involvement than in denying the existence of a plot.

"But," the judge plunged on, straight to the heart of the matter, "you made a phone call to Mr. X. I'm guessing you stepped out of your office on some pretext and did it from your secretary's desk."

He knew almost immediately that he'd misstepped.

Thomas drew himself up indignantly. "I did no such thing. The authorities may check my phone records, if you can get any of them to believe this fanciful conspiracy you're peddling. There were no calls made from my office while my secretary was away." The dean swallowed once, realizing he'd confirmed one of Hardcastle's other allegations, then quickly covered that. "She steps out in the middle of the afternoon for twenty minutes—her break, it's routine."

Hardcastle let it pass, grabbing instead for the only logical conclusion. "He actually came to your office, huh? He wanted to get his hands on Hawksworth's records, I'll bet. Okay, they'll probably want to pull your phone records just to be on the safe side, but whaddya think the odds are that Mr. X made it all the way to your office without somebody noticing him? After all, he didn't know he was going to have to handle the Trask crisis on his way out."

He shook his head slightly. "The guy had moxie, I'll grant him that. Of course what's one more murder, especially when things are starting to unwind?"

He leaned in slightly toward the dean and said, "They are, ya know. The whole thing was too damn complicated, and retrofitting evidence—that's always a dicey proposition. Too bad about Trask, but there's gonna be a dry cleaners somewhere with her name on the receipts for a Harris tweed, and that tech from the lab, the one you were trying to suborn, I talked to him this morning; he's shaky as hell."

"I don't know anything about that," Thomas said, beginning to sound a little shaky himself.

"Too bad," Hardcastle sighed. "If you stick with that 'not knowing nuthin'' angle, you won't have anything to trade. The window of opportunity is closing pretty fast."

The dean bit his lower lip, like a man who wasn't used to being cornered. Hardcastle let him take his time, get a feel for the noose. The pause drew out; there was a little more gnawing.

"I," Thomas hesitated, "I _might_ have a suspicion about who Hawksworth might have had dealings with—who might have wanted him dead . . . besides Mr. McCormick, that is."

Hardcastle snorted. "Too many 'mights'. It's closing and you're gonna get your fingers smashed."

Thomas's gait had slowed and now he halted, breathing a little fast. Hardcastle spared him a concerned look. He didn't want the guy to have a coronary before he could say something useful. He took the dean by the elbow.

"I think we better sit down. Not here, though." A drive-by assassination at this point would just about put the frosting on the cake.

He steered the man around, back the way they'd come, aiming for the coffee-shop.

00000

Not two hours back, Mark had tucked the Buick into a spot between a beat-up paneled van and a Volkswagen. He'd wiped everything down, stowed the key under the mat, and departed. The dealer's plates might stand out to any observant county personnel, but it wasn't likely to get noticed until the crowd thinned toward evening. By that time he figured he would have made the four p.m. call to Father Atia, and could tell him where to send Davey to pick it up.

He'd kept up a determined pace, crossing over Point Dume and then along the coast, checking his watch from time. He made good enough time, even after he ran out of residential streets and cut back down to the beach. He was in no mood to take in the view, the glittering sun on the waves. It was a pity, he thought, to be so unappreciative, but he took not the least interest until he rounded the final promontory that marked the home stretch to Seagull Beach.

 _Home._

It was strange that he found the notion comforting considering the number of times he had personally been assaulted while in residence—and not even counting the basketball games. Overall, San Quentin had been safer by far.

He found himself almost smiling, but that last thought had extinguished it. Barring a miracle on Hardcastle's part he'd be spending tonight in the LA County lock-up, and it would only be the first of many. There'd be no bail for a charge of first degree murder. A pardon only technically wiped the slate clean.

He cast one last look over his shoulder at the beach, then sighed and started up the wooden steps to the estate. It wasn't normally a trudge, but the five mile hike that had preceded it reminded him that he still had at least one buckshot in his right leg.

It might have been the distraction, leaning heavily on the railing and favoring that side, that made him less careful than he ought to have been, considering there was a warrant out with his name on it. In any regard, he was all the way up on the top step, himself fully visible and breathing a little hard, before he lifted his eyes and caught sight of the sedan, parked well back on the drive with only its front end visible.

He had just a moment to register the grillwork, a late model Lincoln. He had the flitting thought that it sure as hell wasn't a cop car, but that took long enough for him not to immediately notice the man who had stepped out of the bushes off to his right—the guy with the gun.

00000

On a between-semesters late afternoon, the coffee shop was nearly empty. Dean Thomas looked as if he needed something stiffer than black, two sugars, but he barely touched even that.

For Hardcastle it was like landing a big one; the hook was set but it would take some very careful handling to reel him in. If that meant letting the dean shroud himself in plausible deniability, then so be it. It wasn't as if the judge could guarantee him immunity and introducing the DA at this point might snap the line and send his quarry scuttling off into the deep murk.

So the story spun out, very circumspect and hypothetical, and eventually, as the minutes ticked by without the name he so desperately wanted, he had to prod the man some more.

"I got the big picture; Hawksworth was a loose cannon and he didn't like McCormick. But that's not going to buy you a 'get out of jail free' card, see?"

Thomas glanced warily over his shoulder at the door, then back at the judge, as though he weren't sure which direction held the greatest threat.

"Yeah," Hardcastle observed, "I'd be worried if I were you. He's already killed two people, but even if you don't hand him over, how long do you think he'll put up with you as a _potential_ threat? Cyanide, strangulation, buckshot—he's got a helluva repertoire."

The dean shuddered slightly, fiddled with his coffee cup for a moment, and then finally blurted out a name, followed by enough details to make it stick.

Hardcastle sat back, frowning.

"But I won't repeat that," Thomas said stiffly, "not for an affidavit, until I get an assurance from the DA."

He'd had to raise his voice for the last bit. The judge had already pushed himself out of the booth and was heading for the phone. The truth was, he wouldn't give a fig for indicting the dean. He'd settle for getting him tossed out of the university and disbarred. That'd be the next thing down from the death penalty for the man, to live out the rest of his sorry life in disgrace.

But what he had, with nearly fifteen minutes to spare, was someone who'd never made it onto his list, a man who might have remained airily above suspicion but, with the sudden inspiration of hindsight, made perfect sense.

He kept one eye on Thomas as he stepped out into the foyer, deposited the change, and dialed Frank's office. He got the man on a single ring.

"Frank? It's Milt." He had to talk over the anxious inquiries from the other end, though he had the sense not to admit he knew anything whatsoever about any outstanding warrants.

"Listen—no, just listen. I've got Thomas here— _yeah_ , the dean."

" _The detectives already questioned him this morning. Hawksworth's secretary's dead. Mark's prints were on a computer disk in her pocket."_

"No surprise, about the prints I mean; he's been sorting through them all week. Though I'm guessing she wasn't the type to just 'forget' one in her pocket."

" _This is bad, Milt. You need to get him in here._ "

"Not till you hear what Thomas is peddling. I'll need to have a word with the DA, first. He's asking for immunity in exchange for what he knows. He's setting himself up as an innocent bystander."

" _You buying_?"

"If you ask me, the DA should take what he can get. We know Thomas is a weasel, but a law school dean in the witness stand is about the only card that'll trump this guy."

He heard Frank sigh. " _Okay, bring Thomas in._ "He added plaintively, " _Mark's not with you?_ "

"Nope," Hardcastle said nonchalantly. "Haven't seen him in a couple hours. Not exactly sure where he is."

" _I'll bet. There's an APB on the Coyote. I can't touch that. Will he try to outrun 'em?_ "

"No. He won't." He made it sound decisive. It would have been true, he was fairly sure, even if man and car hadn't been in separate and undefined locations. "Look, I'll be there in," he checked his watch,"twenty minutes or so. You think you can rustle up the DA?"

" _For this? Yeah, probably._ "

Their good-byes were perfunctory. Hardcastle hung up just briefly, casting a quick glance over toward his recalcitrant witness, who took a doleful sip from his coffee but didn't look as if he were summoning up any new resistance.

Hardcastle smiled thinly and dialed again, the number he'd committed to memory a few hours ago. Father Atia answered the rectory phone. No, McCormick hadn't called in yet.

The judge quelled his disappointment. It was still a little early and he supposed good news could wait. He also quelled a tiny bit of relief that he'd separated McCormick from the Coyote because, all assurances to the contrary, he wasn't entirely certain that those old 'gun it and run' instincts were completely gone.

00000

The movement off to his right summoned his attention just in time for Mark to turn toward it, and not nearly soon enough to prevent the downward blow. Something dark and solid— _a gun_?

And then a fragment of thought on the way to the ground—that he should have tried that Buick out. He could have been north of Paso Robles by now.

00000

Harper met them in the lobby of the police station, spared a sober nod to the dean, and then tugged Hardcastle aside, just slightly but not out of earshot of the witness.

"You heard the latest?"

Hardcastle tried not to look worried as he shook his head.

Harper smiled, very slightly. "Gault—drew up his own warrant and had Keven Muller hauled in over at Men's Central. A half hour later he writes one up for that lawyer, Marty Yertz."

"Grounds?"

Obstruction of justice, witness tampering. Word is he nailed Muller's ass to the wall." Harper smiled thinly. "You know, if you and Gault had gone head-to-head in a cage fight I'da bet on you, but now I'm not so sure."

The judge hmphed. "It's just 'cause I softened that Muller kid up this morning." He turned back to the dean, who had clearly heard every word of the side bar and had visibly paled.

"Guess we better hustle," he said cheerfully, and then, to Harper, "You got somebody from the DA's office to talk deals?"

Hardcastle wasn't sure if it was Harper's powers of persuasion, or the lofty station of the proposed witness that had produced not only the head guy himself, but also an upstairs conference room complete with working coffee-maker. Tompkins, the DA, looked as if he might need something stronger than coffee though, as he eyed the dean and his escort warily.

He waved Dean Thomas to a seat. The man had barely taken it before he leaned forward slightly, looking suddenly eager to talk, like a man who had just gotten his story down and wanted to try it out before any of the details got too fuzzy.

Hardcastle heaved a sigh as he heard the direction it was taking, not that it was unexpected. Thomas was being careful to portray himself as a blameless bystander who'd managed to resist the blandishments of an important law firm's senior partner, a man who was desperate to save the reputation of his business.

"Winston _DeWitt_ ," the DA said doubtfully, "of Malcolm, Hughes, and DeWitt?"

"Yes," Thomas nodded earnestly, "he said his partner was innocent of any wrongdoing and completely unaware of that any fraud was being committed until the very night he was arrested. He was actually in the process of trying to convince his client, that nursing home director, to turn himself in.

"Mr. DeWitt said McCormick turned on Malcolm at the direction of Judge Hardcastle. He presumed there was an element of jealousy there, his partner having so generously mentored the younger man." Thomas glanced at the judge and swallowed hard. "It all sounded so plausible."

"Yeah, yeah," Hardcastle said gruffly, "all innocent bystanders here. You _and_ Malcolm. How 'bout Hawksworth, going after McCormick?"

"There does seem to be a pattern of persecution there," Thomas admitted cautiously. "I presume he 'bought' Mr. Dewitt's story."

"And?" Hardcastle prompted.

Thomas wrinkled his forehead and seemed on the verge of resistance. He might have noticed Harper who glanced down and tapped his watch in a meaningful way. _Time's a'wasting._

The dean sighed and drew himself up a little straighter.

"I talked to Mrs. Trask on the phone yesterday morning; she mentioned her concerns about Hawksworth's funeral arrangements, specifically the whereabouts of the tweed jacket she presumed he would be laid out in."

The DA frowned. "The one that's in evidence—that's being retested?"

"No, a second one—an exact match for the other. She said it had gone missing."

Hardcastle had to give the DA credit; he was quick enough on the uptake. A single word escaped his lips. He looked unrepentant for that and barked sharply, "So when did you last speak to Mr. DeWitt?"

The dean cringed slightly. "Yesterday, after I spoke to Mrs. Trask. I might have mentioned the matter—completely apropos of nothing, just a curious fact, mind you, I had no idea—"

The DA cut him off with a grimace, sending half of it in Hardcastle's direction on what looked like general principle.

"Got enough for another warrant?" the judge asked mildly.

DA Tompkins gave him a jaundiced look as he stood. Then poked a finger at the dean. "I need a signed statement from you. Everything. Every single thing. Got it?"

The man swallowed and nodded, looking remarkably like a freshman confronting an essay exam. The DA considered the source and shook his head in disgust, then pivoted toward the judge, saying, "And where the hell's McCormick?"

00000

McCormick was aware of an enormous pain in his head and of a man calling his name. It wasn't the judge, but it was certainly loud enough to be. Mark was familiar enough with the situation to pretend to still be unconscious, at least until he was kicked in the ribs.

"How'd you get in here?" muttered McCormick, then immediately thought what a stupid question that was.

The man who'd kicked him stepped back and aimed a pistol at him, smiling just a bit. "I drove through the gate, of course. I'm afraid it's a total loss, but the security line was easy enough to find and sever, so don't hope that we'll be interrupted."

Mark shook his head, then regretted it. Holding a hand to his scalp, he felt just a trickle of blood in his hair, but knew he might be concussed. _It's a fine thing to be familiar with so many medical conditions_ , he thought bitterly. "And who the hell are you, or am I supposed to guess?"

"Does the name Winston DeWitt ring a bell for you?" At Mark's blank look, the man with the gun sighed and added, "Of Malcolm, Hughes, and DeWitt?"

McCormick opened his mouth to respond, then paused and thought. "So all this is because your partner went hinky and started offing people?"

"No, it's not." Suddenly, DeWitt's calm exterior shattered like glass and he shouted, "It's because you . . . you, you _prison scum_ , you couldn't play along! Oh, no, you had to run to Hardcastle and get him involved and trash our reputation completely! All our clients got a running start away from us as soon as Kenneth was arrested and charged. Malcolm, Hughes, and DeWitt doesn't even really exist any more! Thanks to you and your vigilante judge." The final line was ground out as DeWitt obviously fought to get his control back.

"But you can't blame me," McCormick protested. "Blame your founding partner. He's the guy who set up the whole racket and then started bumping off senior citizens. He's the -"

DeWitt interrupted with a growl, "Save it. Right now, you're going to write your suicide note.

00000.

"I know where he is," Hardcastle said suddenly. "No, wait, that doesn't make sense." He furrowed his brow and scowled ferociously. "But I'm sure. I _know_ that's where he is."

Tompkins bared his teeth and said slowly, "So do you think you could possibly fill us in on that, Hardcastle?"

The judge nodded, still trying to understand how he knew. "He's home." He looked across the room at Harper. "He went home, to the estate." Without even a nod to the DA, he reached for the phone on the table and dialed a number.

00000

Mark was just about to start explaining to DeWitt that he'd sprained his writing hand when he dove out of the way of the shotgun blast when the phone rang. "Ah, that's gotta be the security people about the gate," he said quickly.

DeWitt sneered. "You can't believe I'd fall for that. I cut the connection. They'll be hours tracing that down."

"Yeah, but," Mark improvised hastily, "you didn't even notice the wireless sensor, did you? We had it added this morning after you ambushed our lawnmower yesterday. And they're not gonna give up when there's no answer. There'll be someone here in five minutes; that's the deal. You better let me answer it," as the phone rang for the fourth time.

"You must think I'm as stupid as you are." DeWitt picked up the phone with his left hand, right still aiming at Mark's head. "Everything's fine," he told the receiver. "We had a tourist try to make a U-turn in the driveway and he hit the gas instead of the brake. No need to send anyone out. We can handle it," and he hung up on the astonished Hardcastle.

00000

The judge turned to Harper and said urgently, "He's got McCormick. In the main house."

Lieutenant Harper took charge at once. "Get as many as you can out there now," he snapped to the officer at the door. "I'll follow and radio instructions as we go. Cut the sirens at Santa Monica. Move!" He turned back to Hardcastle. "Milt, you're with me." He then turned to the DA and asked obsequiously, "Would you care to accompany us, sir?"

Tompkins glared at him. "If I never have to deal with either of you again, it'll be -" The others were gone before he could finish.

00000

Mark had gritted his teeth and written at DeWit''s direction. He forebore telling the man that the note read like something someone else had dictated. When was the last time he'd used the word "intransigence"; in fact, _had_ he ever used the word at all? He wrote as slowly as possible, claiming his handwriting was atrocious and that the note had to be legible, but DeWitt's tiny fund of patience was nearly at an end, probably because Mark had stalled as much as possible, claiming dizziness from the pellets in his leg and fatigue in his wrist from all the hedge-trimming he'd done, not to mention having DeWitt spell all the longer words, like intransigence.

"Okay, you read it over." McCormick handed the note to DeWitt and cast a casual eye around the den to see if Hardcastle had left a gun anywhere within reach. He sighed. No, the judge was entirely too conscientious about locking them up. Not even a fireplace poker was available, so it was up to DeWitt to make a mistake of some sort.

DeWitt finished proofing the note and motioned McCormick to stand up. "Now we walk out the front door and you stop just outside."

"What?" Mark objected at once. "I wouldn't shoot myself on the front step. Are you nuts?"

"Just get moving," gritted the other man. "Slowly."

00000

As the police cars screamed toward Santa Monica, Harper gave instructions over the radio. When they reached the town limits, each car cut the siren, but kept the lights flashing. They'd made good time down the PCH to within a mile of Gull's Way and he and Hardcastle had their plans finalized. At least, as finalized as they could be, considering each would have to wing it depending on circumstance.

"Okay, one last time," Harper leaned over the seat to look at the judge in the back. "You sneak up to the house and give us the high sign about their location. There'll be squads at the other entrance as well as the front gate, and we're getting men in position down on the beach. If we can get the 'copter out here quick enough, I'll have them keep downwind so DeWitt can't hear it. Arm up, arm down, arm waving, got it? And try not to be the Lone Ranger on this one, willya, Milt?"

Hardcastle looked at him grimly. "If we're already too late . . ." He broke off and looked out the window at the estate coming up rapidly on the left. "I'm making no promises, Frank."

Harper sighed, then rubbed the top of his head. "Yeah, I know. Listen, Mark's used to this kind of situation. You know he's stalling so we'll get there in time." He glanced out his window as the car slewed into the driveway and came to a stop. "Okay, you're on. And keep low."

The judge exited the car, careful not to slam the door and trotted quickly into the shrubs lining the drive. He moved quickly, but quietly, until he could peer around the corner of the gatehouse. In front of the main house, he could see McCormick arguing with a man who had to be DeWitt: a man aiming a pistol at McCormick and shoving him up against the front railing.

00000

"Listen, I'm telling you," Mark expostulated. "We talked about it once. We were both kind of lit up, the power was off and all we had to eat was a bottle of tequila. We got onto suicide – you know, if and when and where and all – and I told Hardcastle I'd do it next to the fountain."

DeWitt motioned for him to move further off and pointed the gun right at his head. "At this point, I only care if it looks halfway realistic," he snarled. "Hardcastle isn't going to be around to make waves over it and the cops will be relieved to have their case wrapped up so easily."

McCormick looked at him in shock and disbelief. "Are you _kidding_? All Hardcastle's buddies in the LAPD? You think they're just going to say, 'What the hell, another ex-con gone' and let it go? You've got to do this right, DeWitt, or they'll nail you for sure."

DeWitt lowered the gun momentarily, shook his head and pointed it at Mark again. "You want me to believe you're trying to help me make this look real? Turn around, you bastard, and let's get it over with."

"Hey, give me just sec, okay?" Mark held up an unsteady hand. "I'm a little woozy here. You hit me in the head, you know. You mind just giving me a minute to . . . you know, set myself?" He wavered a trifle and grabbed for the railing to keep his balance.

"You've had time enough." DeWitt moved slightly to his right and aimed again. "Go to hell, McCormick."

00000

Hardcastle looked back down the drive and saw Harper and a uniformed cop watching for his signal. His right arm raised up, then lowered. Frank nodded in understanding and jerked a thumb at the uniform, who moved back to the squad car to issue orders to the police surrounding the estate.

Harper had just started to sneak up to join the judge at the gatehouse, when he heard a shot.

00000

McCormick was down, but so was DeWitt. As the lawyer's finger had tightened on the trigger, Mark had dropped and rolled toward him, knocking him off his feet. The two men were now grappling with each other, fighting for control of the weapon, and the gun went off once more before Hardcastle could reach them and manage to grab DeWitt's gun-hand.

"You son of a -" The judge dodged DeWitt's flailing fist and back-handed him with the pistol. DeWitt slumped back, nearly or completely unconscious and Hardcastle's attention focused on McCormick, lying supine and very still.

Harper arrived at that moment and took charge of DeWitt, while also casting an anxious look at Mark, unmoving on the concrete.

Hardcastle drew a deep breath and knelt down beside Mark. "Hey, kiddo. You okay?" It was the only thing he could think to say at that moment, seeing no blood except for a dried trace in McCormick's hair. "You with me here, McCormick?"

Mark slowly opened his eyes and spoke. "I keep _telling_ everybody I have a concussion. Why doesn't anybody believe me?" Then he passed out.

 **Epilogue**

"So you went for him, unarmed, while he was waving a gun around and firing it? I don't know about you, Judge; didn't we just have this little talk?" McCormick leaned back on the den couch cautiously and then sighed in deep content.

"You keep that up and I'll take you back to the ER and tell 'em you're delirious," was the only response.

"It was nice of him to get those last pellets out at the same time." Mark thought about pulling up the leg of his jeans to examine the bandage again, but decided it was too much trouble.

After a few minutes of silence, Hardcastle spoke again. "You heard Frank say he could wait 'til tomorrow for your statement. But I know he'd really like me to go down there tonight. I could get Mattie over here, maybe, to keep an eye on you while I'm out."

"Judge, I'll be fine. A little drive downtown would be no problem. In just a little while."

"DeWitt has clammed up, y'know. He says he's waiting for his lawyer. You need more'n one guess who that would be?"

McCormick shook his head carefully. "Gotta be Hughes. He's the only partner left."

"Got it in one. Thing is, he retired two years ago and they're having trouble getting a-hold of him." The judge leaned back in his chair and studied the man on the couch. "You're not as pale as you were."

"I'm _fine_. I'm used to it by now anyway. So what about Tompkins? Is he happy with the Dean's confession?" McCormick smiled sardonically. "Poor little dean, so innocent and so unhappy right about now."

Hardcastle tried, and failed, to hide a smirk. "The DA's . . . well, he's, ah, surly. But he's dealing with the situation. We just about got this wrapped up, finally. 'Bout time, too."

"Yeah, well, I'll believe that when pigs sprout wings." Mark snuggled deeper into the couch cushions and closed his eyes.

"Listen, I keep telling you we've got a whole chain of evidence now. The duplicate jacket was the missing link. It's complete, it's solid, and nobody's thinking about anything except nailing DeWitt's hide to the wall. Well, and maybe . . . just maybe, getting a little something on Dean Thomas. He couldn't wait to spill his guts on DeWiit and try to save his own neck. Hah!" Hardcastle swiped a thumb across his nose and grinned in delight. "It's gonna be a lot of fun deposing that guy. He's already contradicted himself four times. Not -" he held up a palm when McCormick started up off the couch in alarm, "in anything involving you. Nah, he's gotten himself wound up in a cocoon about his own alibis and motives. Guy's an idiot. How he got to be a dean . . ."

McCormick snorted in amusement and agreement and lifted his feet to rest on the coffee table.

Hey," the judge pushed back his chair and reached to swat the other man's feet back off the coffee table. "Why don't you lie down for a while and I'll get Maggie or Mrs. McGillicuddy to sit with you 'til I get back."

"Huh-uh." Mark rose at once and without staggering, or at least not much. "This case was all about me from the word 'go' and I'll finish it up tonight. C'mon, what're you waiting around for? Somebody to saddle Silver for you? Let's get down there and get this done and we can pick up a pizza at Tony's on the way back. I'll even let you drive," he finished magnanimously.

"You'll _let_ me drive? After what that doctor said?" The judge stretched an arm out and flicked off the light switch as they left the den. " _I'll_ drive and _you'll_ pay for the pizza. We wouldn't have been in this mess in the beginning if you'd played nice with your law professors."

"Oh, yeah? And I suppose they were _your_ biggest fans all this time. Give it up, Hardcase. You've got way more enemies than I'll ever have."

The judge snorted. "At least my enemies are law profs and deans and lawyers. Yours are named Cruncher and Flick and -"

"Hey! I've got some classy enemies, too! Listen, I'll match the guys who hate me against the guys who hate you any day. In fact, I bet I can name more classy bad guys who're out to get me than you've got."

"You're on!"

Their voices faded into the distance until they were subsumed by the roar of the truck engine. Life goes on at Gull's Way.

 _Thank you all for supporting our virtual fourth season_

 _so loyally. This story is the sequel to_

 _our season finale._


End file.
